Down on the Upside
by Zeitgeist84
Summary: Dexter Moser; 29. Son, sibling, best friend, and the world's most charming serial killer. His entire life, built on lies, threatens to crumble as his unburied past and uncertain future shifts over his present. AU if Laura Moser never died. On temporary hiatus.
1. Little Box of Dreams

**Summary: **An Alternate Universe idea where Laura Moser wasn't killed in that Shipping Container. Strangely enough, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Some things have changed for the sake of the story: Dexter's birth year has been retconned to 1975, and Brian's is in 1973, making Debra born in about '77. The story starts in the January of 2005, meaning Dexter's just about to turn thirty.

**Down on the Upside**

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><p><em>"For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no further reward, and even the memory of them is forgotten."<em>

-King Solomon, _"_Ecclesiastes 9:5 (NIV Translation)"__

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><p><strong>'Little Box of Dreams'<strong>

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><p><em>January, 2005<em>

It's night. Dark, beautiful, contemplative night for the contemplative life. A hundred thousand songs lift up into the hot, sticky, Miami night sky, but none quite the same tune as mine. Yes, I'm unique, I know, my genius is wasted, though. All the singing voices inside my head, urging me on have been left exactly there: in my head. I live inside my head, you know. They say it isn't healthy, but when you're like me, living inside your head is the one reprieve you get from this exalted, _beautiful_ outside world.

Of course, if I wanted to, I could blow it all up. Go on a rampage, pumping round after round of slugs into everyone and everything I know. But where would the fun be in that? Then I wouldn't have anyone at all. And you know what happens to lonely people: that fullmetal jacket-oh, the paradox of war!-looks fantastic, _so _inviting. I don't want that. Socrates said that life is just a sickness, and that we all must get better through death, but I disagree. I don't want hemlock-laced tea; I'm not so weary of life yet. Suicide is for the weak; I'd rather live on inside my head than be dead.

Also, if I died, I'd go to hell. And if what Sartre said about Hell being other people is true, my own personal hell would be filled with too many bodies to count. I don't like the disorder that would bring, that wouldn't be nice, not nice at all. And yet another point in favor of staying inside my head.

Living inside my head does have its drawbacks, though: I don't like to talk much, my mother always said it made me seem unfriendly; I don't tend to be very assertive in my relationships, which my brother tells me is both a blessing and a curse; I'm plain awful at board games, I don't know why, a friend of mine said that, so I thought I'd include it; and I have this _need_. No _one _knows about the need. It could curdle your blood if you know.

I'm being serious, so don't laugh.

It's been two whole months-two _months _I've been tracking this man-since I've had a real night to myself. Yeah, tonight's the night. It's going to happen; it has to happen.

Mark McDowell. A drunk old man, made a fortune of stock brokering, with a penchant for prostitutes, at least, that's what Miami Metro PD was never able to solve. All they were left with were a bunch of missing prostitutes, and unfortunately for them, no one really cares about a couple of missing hookers. It took me a long time to fish them out of the pond he's been hiding them in, took me even longer to get them clean.

I don't like all that extra work, but at least, I get an extra bit of pleasure out of that work later tonight.

Mr. McDowell, as you might've garnered from what I've said before, made a fortune off stock-brokering back in the eighties, so he lives in one of those super-expensive homes you see on Southbeach, and lives like a kingly slob. I've observed him on and off for the past six weeks, and his magisterial lethargy surprises even me: this was a man who made a fortune during the era of Reaganomics? He sits around and watches old pornos and seems to never leave his couch. Sounds more like dumb luck.

But, every Wednesday, which tonight is, my friend likes to leave the comforts of his sofa throne take a trip to the local strip club at exactly eight o'clock. You know, be loud and obnoxious, get a face-full of silicon breasts, the usual for a man like him. I'm not complaining, I have an appropriate sensibility about sensuality, even if it is...dulled, but it's fulfilling that need that feels so much better. You may think sex is good, and all, but it's vulgar and often lacks finesse, the need, on the other hand, never takes second place. It's graceful, so much more graceful than shoving yourself into a hole repeatedly. Most people wouldn't think so, I guess, but I do.

Ah, well, it's not for everyone. What're you going to do?

Oh, I hear the door to Mr. McDowell's mansion shutting, does that mean the hunt is on? Oh, I hope it does, the voices in my head are reaching fever pitch, and a strange sort of calm washes over even though these voices keep shouting at me.

The footsteps approach his car, the car I'm laying in the back seat of, garrote wire at the ready. Yes, I usually like using animal tranquilizers or a sleeper hold, but sometimes people just need a good old fashioned strangling.

The front door opens, and the need swells up like a tidal wave; I can barely keep the maniac glee off my face as he takes a seat, coughs once, scratches himself, and turns on the car. In that split second, I'm up and the wire finds itself wrapped around McDowell's throat, squeezing the life out of him.

He coughs a few times, and I feel a small smile tug at my lips. Hell is other people? Sure, Mr. Sartre, I am sure hell awaits this man, and I really hope there is no exit for him. I pull tighter, I don't need him to drive, I'll do it myself. He struggles, making a few hacking noises that must be attempted screams, I chuckle happily, responding to him with the air of a parent trying to calm their crying child:

"Shh...go to sleep. Everything's going to get better if you go to sleep," I whisper into his ears as he slowly goes limp, "there's a good boy," I grin, watching his slow intakes of breath, indicative of of his being unconscious. I uncoil the garrote wire from around his throat, and watch him fall limply over to the side.

Well, here goes everything. I open the rear door and step out, checking the area to make sure there's no one around, before grabbing the body and carrying it from the driver's seat to the trunk, shutting that piece of metal over his body and his life.

* * *

><p>"Wake up," I say softly into the man's ears.<p>

He jerks awake, trying to strain against the plastic that surrounds him, but, of course, I made sure he wouldn't get out. It would severely disappoint me if he were to be so inconsiderate as to try and escape, but it's not the first time my tablemates haven't tried, so the rubber sheeting and plastic wrap are a necessary precaution.

I notice McDowell's eyes flutter to what's hanging above him, a carriage of strung-up body parts, all painstakingly reordered to match the hooker it came from. Hanging down from this ceiling are the carefully reconstructed bodies of five hookers dear Mr. McDowell has killed. It's a legitimately terrifying sight, if I do say so myself. And now, the panic sets in.

It does for all animals. Faced with your inevitable end, everyone runs scared, breathing picks up, you sweat more, your nails and hair grow twenty percent faster; your eyes dart back and forth looking for an exit, but there isn't one._ There is no exit_.

"I do admire your handiwork," I nod, whistling low at the strong up body parts, which flail miserably in the draft of the cabin we are in, "you must've been quite the killer in your heyday."

McDowell's still looking for an escape, still trying to find a way out of this mess. No such luck, he slumps back down when he realizes he's wrapped too tightly in Saran Wrap. I think it's a funny and slightly morbid realization that you're going to die because you can't get out of the same thing you use to cover your lasagna.

"Are we going to talk, or are you going to scream?" I ask, donning a psuedo-sweet tone, "because if you do, I'll be forced to cut your tongue out, and I don't like to do that. Too much blood, not enough...order."

McDowell nods, and I take the multiple cotton balls stuffed in his mouth out, and set it off to the side. The ritual must be satisfied. I grab one of the scalpels, stepping over his head as he begins to speak:

"So you're like me, are you?" He asks, chuckling hollowly, "a sick fucking prick?"

"Mm...something like that," I say, cutting into his right cheek, reveling in the feeling of feeling of pushing through skin and into the vast underneath of humanity-blood, the soul of all. McDowell twitches at the cut, and slightly gasps.

"But you kill people like us," he admits, scrunching his face up after I set the scalpel back down, indicating the bodies strung up from the ceiling.

"Two for two, Mr. McDowell, you're on a roll," I reply softly, too enamored by drawing some blood into the pipette and placing it on a microscope slide, a few little drops. I place another one on top of it, smiling as I see the blood squished in between the two slides.

"A trophy?" McDowell asks, marveling at the blood as well.

"It keeps me satiated for a little while. I mean, it's not often I get to do this, right? I had to watch you for nearly two months, after all," I snort, looking down at him, "I like to enjoy the time we have together, and the slide will always leave me reminder of this fortunate situation we are in."

"What are you, 31?" McDowell asks with an ironic gaze.

"Close, 29. I'll be 30 next month, but that doesn't matter much to you, does it?" I question, referencing both that he doesn't care for how old I really am, and that he's going to die in the next ten minutes.

"Keep taking them," he says like a weary old man, "because this is what you've got waiting for you."

"A house in Southbeach? Sounds like a pretty good deal if you ask me," I reply, smirking.

"No, not having the power to do it anymore. You realize you've become too weak...and when the power goes, the will goes with it. You're gonna have to hide from your family, run away from home, live on your own, and you'll understand that what you have is a curse, and you'll be glad the day you die."

"Already hide from my family, I'd break their dear little hearts if they knew I was...well, _this_. I already ran away from home, lived on my own, learned the criminal psychology. Nothing really scares me anymore, not even the vast unknown," I mock slightly, but it's amiable, like two friends having a friendly argument. I tend to like these killers, but I can't show them pity. That would take all the _fun_ out of it.

"That's nice," McDowell starts, "wish I could be so sure about my family. But there's too many people in it. I could never truly hide who I was, it was eventually gonna come out. Had to get away. But, seems like you already got past that point, did'ya, boy?"

"Something like that," I answer vaguely, "but then again, I was taught by the best. I know how to fake emotion and love right alongside a 'real person', the difference is is that I don't lie to myself about how I really feel."

"Empty?"

"You're a star, Mr. McDowell; for a sick, prostitute-murdering, old man, you're pretty bright," I start, "but you've got to have standards. I can't condone killing whores, they sell their bodies because they need money, not because you need some quick fix."

"Do you really believe that?" McDowell mocks, "whores are easy targets. No one cares what happens to them, you're only killing me cause you want a challenge."

"Challenge?" I ask, slightly incredulous, "you're 56 years old. What makes you think you're a challenge to me?"

I walk over to the cart to the side of the table, taking my time in picking out which knife I'd like to use.

"Don't pretend I don't know how killers work," the elder man says cryptically.

I turn back to my little black bag of tools, deciding on whether I want a knife or that cordless reciprocating saw I bought a few days ago.

"Well, kill away, then," McDowell says in his Southern drawl, "I ain't no challenge, and I ain't goin' nowhere."

"Even if you tried," I say whilst turning around, "there'd be no way to get out."

"No exit," the man laughs, echoing my thoughts.

"Precisely," I reply mechanically, feeling the bloodlust rise as I look down on this poor figure. Would that murder disappear from mankind! All things crooked would be made right. Yeah, right. The world would certainly a much duller place, if that happened.

_'Kill him!' _a tiny little voice at the deep end of my brain screams out; I don't need to be told twice, I swipe the knife across his throat and watch gleefully as McDowell gurgles and more beautiful blood spills out his throat.

* * *

><p>My name is Dexter Moser. I know there's a reason for why I am the way I am, but there's too many of them to count, so I've stopped trying to look for what made me the way I am, and accept that this <em>is <em>the way I am. Every family has the oddball, the soft-spoken, younger brother. You know, the one that people can't tell if he's sincerely awkward, gay, or...well, something darker? I'm that guy in my family, but somehow, they still love me to death. I wish I could repay them the favor, but I've long since gotten over the fact that_ feeling_ isn't my forte.

So I find myself faking a lot of my emotions. I've become a master at it. Oh, no, don't get me wrong, I did have feelings once, but by process of living, they were run down. McDowell was right in a way, when you lose the desire, you lose everything with it. I lost the desire to connect, and with it, the tools to connect with others. So I have to use artificial suspension bridges to keep my facade up with other people rather than the natural landbridges they have.

Faking isn't so bad, sometimes I get so deep into my role, it doesn't even feel like faking anymore. It's like an actor who truly connects with his character, or at least, time-to-time, but I like to think of myself as a convincing actor. That's me on land, Dexter Moser, model brother and friend.

But it's here, out in the Biscayne, on my boat, three large black hefty bags burgeoning with the refuse that was once Mike McDowell to my side, where I can really be me. Now, _me _is a subjective word, I don't really know what I am-whether a vigilante, or a sadist who just likes a challenge-doesn't really matter, I guess. I prefer not to think of it, as the topic often renders itself concussing in nature. Instead, I just like to see the black bags sink into the water, down into that deep, black murkiness and take heart that I've done Miami a service, and myself a giant favor.

That little glass slide. With no more than two or three drops of blood, it's everything-it sets my teeth on edge, calms me, arouses me, disgusts me. Blood is everything to me, just as emotions are nothing, because ultimately blood means _so much more_. Human emotions are weak, and confusing; blood is thick, easy to understand, it carries a universal message, one of life-and sometimes, one of the soul.

I don't think I have a soul. I rest into the driver's seat of my boat, thinking about this. My friends have souls, my siblings have souls, it's easy to think everything has a soul, too easy, in fact, but I've seen far too much in far too many places to believe in lies like that. Their blood has that message of a soul, but _my_ blood doesn't. My blood doesn't contain a soul within it, and maybe that's why I'm so attracted to it, because my blood is empty. It carries no universal message, no soul, maybe not even life. I just take the blood of dead men and women who had stunted souls and hope it can fix my emptiness. Besides, what do they care? They're dead, they'll fade into the black, mystic water, knowing nothing, even the memory of them is waiting to be forgotten.

I turn the boat around, heading back to the pier where my I park my boat, thinking about that lifeless blood of mine, and how it struggles on through various incomplete proxies.

Again, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't want to die, I've already told you this, but I can have fantasies, can't I? The unfortunate reality of the matter is that I have to live, because I have to live for my family. I have to live on, even if it isn't for myself.

I have to live on, even if I'm not alive.

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><p>It's the same thing every Wednesday night. I try to sleep a dreamless sleep, but I'm always interrupted. There are moans, squeals of delight, and groans on the other side of the dry wall, and it makes sleeping quite impossible. The routine fashion of my neighbor's sexual adventures often lets me out of the apartment on Wednesday nights to 'spend some time on my boat'. I usually get back around midnight, right as the lovemaking finds itself exhausted, wasted.<p>

They continue on, talking in what they think are quiet voices, but I can hear them as I review the night's work, talking about the kids, their lives, the same inane, boring, _human _subjects. Finally, after half-an-hour of hearing about their ridiculous life pursuits, I go to the bathroom and take a long shower to keep from retching.

I like water, it's not as thick as blood, or transfixing to look at, but it's...transcendental in its own way. Cleansing, scalding, I'm a different man once I've taken a shower.

When I exit the shower, I find my neighbors have gone to sleep, and I decide it's high time I do the same. I open my air conditioning unit, looking in for a little brown box that holds everything that is Dexter Moser. I smile as I pull it out and put my newest acquisition into that little box of dreams and slide it back into the A/C. After that, I move like a zombie past my kitchen, pulling off my shirt and thinking of the good things that happened this night, and crash face-first into my bed, falling asleep rather quickly.

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><p>My eyes snap open, the locks on my door are jiggling, someone's trying to break in. Why? That's the first question that hits my mind, I'm the very last apartment down the path, why would anyone...why do I care? I don't have enough time to put on my shirt and I don't really have a weapon on me, so I'll just have to wing it. I go up to the door and look in the eyehole, before sighing at the stupidity of my neighbor.<p>

I swing open the door to reveal two people waiting outside. One is a tall man with jet-black, curly hair, bending over where the keyhole would have been if I hadn't opened the door. He gives me what he hopes is an innocent smile. People say we look a lot alike, but I don't see it, dressed in what looks to be sweatpants and a T-shirt. The other is a tall woman, brunette, with a very pretty, slightly oblong face. She is fully dressed in a police uniform. Both of them give me an awkward look, before looking down at the keyhole; a key is still lodged in it.

"Brian," I rub my eyes wearily, unfazed by the tall man's overeager behavior, "how many times have I told you that I didn't give you the key to my place so you could keep breaking into it?"

"What, can't I enjoy bagels with my baby brother?" He asks sincerely, holding up a bag that says 'Bagels' on it, though I don't recognize the company name.

"Not if you try to sneak in while he's sleeping," I deadpan, Brian, my big brother, smiles and pushes past me.

Brian Moser, my brother, is a doctor, a very good one, too. Apparently, the most successful out of my entire family, but, hey, everybody's got their lot in life. For some reason beyond me, Brian takes a vested interest in what happens to me. He passes it off as a promise he made to our mother, but I really just think it's because he loves me. I don't think I can, but if there was anyone I could love in the world, it'd be big brother Brian.

"Hey, Dex," the woman in the cop uniform asks, noticing that I'm blocking, unintentionally, mind you, her way into my humble abode, "you gonna let me in?"

"Fine," I sigh melodramatically, "you can come in too, Deb."

"Wow, fuck you very much!" She replies with feigned enthusiastism to my sarcastic admission, walking past me as well and into my foyer.

Debra Morgan's not my sister, but she's as close as they come. In another life, we might've been brother and sister, but...well, this life's life. We've been friends since we were kids, since the Moser family moved in no less than a block away from Deb's childhood home. Her father, Harry, is a good friend of mine, a mentor, and practically a second father-figure. Hell, for some reason, he often showed me more attention than his own daughter, but I still can't understand why, for the life of me. Deb's a cop like her dad, Miami Metro Vice Department, she hates it there. I think-I know-she wants into homicide.

She's the opposite of what I am. She's kindhearted, but masks it in a layer of sarcasm and foul language. I don't think she wants anyone to know how much heart she actually has. Leave it to her to interpret that as a bad thing, but she's a good person, unlike me.

Both of them are, unlike me.

"Nice to see you're airing out the scars," Brian snorts, pointing at the plethora of scars on my chest and back. All long stories, each of them, we might get to that later.

"Thanks," I snark; I don't need to be reminded of these things. They remind me of a pretty dark time in my life.

"You're going to need to tell me how you got those one day," Deb stares wide-eyed at the scars.

"Hey, not before he tells me," Brian jokes, "I reserve the right as Dexter's sibling."

"One day," I raise my eyebrows in the affirmative while walking back to my bedroom for a shirt. One day, indeed, hopefully never.

"Where's Rita?" I ask Brian, changing the subject and suddenly wondering if it was Deb or Brian's 'woman' I heard last night. I hadn't been paying much attention.

"Still sleeping," he shrugs nonchalantly. Rita is Brian's girlfriend, or something like that, I don't really involve myself in my sibling's sex life. Deb saved Rita's life about two years back in a domestic dispute, she was raped by her ex-husband, which sounds strange in and of itself, but apparently it happens and Brian happened to be the sweet ICU doctor they had watching her recovery. Naturally, I distance myself from any sort of relationship like that, so I don't know if that's normal or not. In six months, they were together and Rita's husband was in jail.

Of course, no one told me that such an action made me Uncle Dex.

Rita has two children, Astor and Cody. Both are little angels. And both happen to love Uncle Dexter, which is both a blessing and a curse, I suppose. I'm fond of kids, they remind me of a time that doesn't exist anymore, a time where things were peaceful.

"You know, Dee and Ma want to see you again," Brian begins, munching on a bagel, "they say you take your job too seriously."

"Yeah," I start, walking to my refrigerator and pulling out a carton of orange juice, "they're probably right. Tell Dee I'll stop by the funeral home this afternoon, hopefully mom's there too."

"Mmm...OJ," Brian grunts, "let me get some of that and I'll be sure to tell our sweet little half-sister."

I pull out glasses for all three of us:

"Deb, you want orange juice?" I ask.

"No thanks, Dex," the Morgan calls back, "you and I need to get to work!"

"It's six o'clock, we've got three hours," I say, confused.

"Maybe for you, Mr. Homicide, but not for me. My car's fucking dead, and I need a lift; you know this."

I know this, yes, what I have to wonder, however, is why I live such a short distance away from these two. Savages! Ruining my restful repose. Well, what can I do?

"Relax, Deb, I'm just giving you a hard time," I snort, hearing the television turn on.

I should probably take a shower, and floss, and then get something to eat. Damn these people; they've ruined my perfect schedule.

* * *

><p>I had a pretty lousy shower, mainly because Deb thinks a shower that lasts longer than five minutes is hellishly long, despite that I remember her extraordinarily long showers when she would sleep over at our house when we were kids. Breakfast was fairly mediocre, too, the bagel was good, but not filling, and I didn't have enough time to make some meat because my mentor's daughter needs to be at work an hour early so she can get into her hooker get-up.<p>

I've seen the sex suit she has to wear for work, and frankly, it's a bit funny looking on Deb. She looks entirely too tall and lanky in it; it certainly doesn't do her much justice as simple jeans and a T-shirt would do. I think that's what she hates about Vice, probably feels it's not her calling to be wearing thongs and hotpants day in and day out.

Then again, I don't see how it could be anyone's calling.

Of course, since I'm already here, I have to listen to my childhood best friend talk about how unfair being in Vice really is. She has to do more than most to get into Homicide because she's a Morgan, and anything her father, Lieutenant of Miami Metro Homicide, Harry Morgan, does for her can be considered nepotism.

I guess I tolerate it because I like to hear Deb talk about these things; I like to hear all people complain. It keeps me connected, makes me realize that no one in the world really likes their lives. Somehow, that makes me feel pleasant. I know, it's sick; I'm sick-I've heard the whole spiel before.

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened?" Deb suddenly asks, right as I'm about to shut off the car. I look at her strangely.

"Tell you about what?"

"Oh, I don't know, the fact that the 'gifted' young Dexter Moser graduated from college at twenty, had the chance to get into Medical School and then just fucking disappeared for six years?"

"There's nothing to say," I shrug, opening my car door and step out into the muggy Miami morning air, "I saw parts of the world I never did before."

"And the fact that your torso looks like Freddy-fucking-Krueger's has nothing to do with that?" She asks in a snide manner, following me stride-for-stride "come on, Dex. We were best friends when we were kids, why are you suddenly shutting me out?"

Same reason I'm shutting Brian, and my mother, and my sister out: the secret's too big to keep.

"Because some secrets are just that dull, Ms. Morgan," I respond in a falsely respectful way.

"Oh, I'm fucking sure," Deb says sarcastically, walking with me up to the door, which I open for her. She passes through, and stops, apparently waiting for me to come in, "well?" she asks.

"I've got to pick up a few things before I get back. Work for me starts in an hour, remember?"

"Oh, okay," the brunette nods. She looks at me for a moment, and I briefly wonder if I have something on my face, before we both realize we're staring and she walks off.

It gets like that whenever I don't talk to her 'straight'. Usually my friendship with Deb is easy, I help her out with work stuff, we often eat lunch together working on said 'work stuff', we watch basketball games and old movies together with Brian (and sometimes Rita, but not often); but whenever she brings up those missing six years from the history of Dexter Moser, all awkwardness ensues.

But, hey, what can I do about it?

* * *

><p>Donuts, fried little fritters, glazed and covered in frosting, who'd ever thought it'd be so easy? Walk into a Police Station with a box of them, and you're suddenly everyone's best friend.<p>

"Dex!" A middle-aged woman calls:

"Lydia," I reply, holding out the box of donuts for her to take one, but she declines, "how're those kids of yours?"

"Little angels, I tell you," Lydia grins, thinking of her children. It's remarkably easy to make people like you if you know what to talk to them about, "Matthew got on the Honor Roll at school."

"Oh, a little genius?" I ask, matching her grin, the woman blushes. I feel a tap on my shoulder, I turn to see an older African-American man, he's a detective on Vice, I'm pretty sure:

"Heard about that Santos Case," he begins ecstatically, "we've been wanting to bring that pimp down for years but couldn't prove it, and you linked him to those Murders down in Buena Vista? You're gonna make Detective in no time, mark my words, Moser!"

"Cross our fingers," I suggest hopefully, the elder Detective smiles before looking down at the donuts hungrily, "take one."

"Aww, thank you, brother," he thanks me with a bit of whimsy in his voice before walking off.

"No problem...brother," I call to his retreating form. He acknowledges me with a hand waving in the air.

"How's Danni?" I turn back to Lydia, inquiring about her daughter.

"Typical teen," she grins, "she's a handful but she knows when to behave. Just growing up, I guess."

"They all do," I say with what I hope is a sincere smile.

"Too soon, if you ask me," Lydia smiles, "I have to get going, good to talk to you, Dex."

"Uh, you too!" I call out as she walks towards a group of cops.

They're good people. I tend to notice that a lot with cops; the best of the earth, you might say. But, it's precisely how good they are that makes it so...easy to blend in. If I had to be a _real _person, and not a cop, I'd be exposed too easily. And what with the exceptionally low solve rate of violent crime here in Miami, I can feel safe even if someone does get too close. Long live Miami, right?

I head to the elevators, offering a few extra donuts to anyone on the way, before heading up to the Homicide Floor.

* * *

><p>"Angel, a donut?" I ask, offering the man I've been working with for the past few months one of the fried fritters.<p>

"Oh, thanks, Dexter," the Cuban man grins, taking a bear claw.

Angel Batista is a few years older than me, he's a little shorter than I am, a little more portly, and apparently has a love for fedoras. He's also sort of my partner. Me? I'm just a homicide officer at this point, and he's a detective, but I've got to work with someone and apparently I've 'shown promise' in taking up a spot as Detective once the space clears, so I guess he's taken me on as his protege. I collapse into my chair, setting aside the donuts, and begin to leaf through old case files.

"Hey," Batista starts at length, "Morgan wants us in the briefing room in ten."

"Big or small briefing?"

"I think he's doing the bigger one in the afternoon, he's getting all those Vice guys in here because of the Dahlia Case," Batista remarks, "I think he just wants to talk to the people on that case and us on ours before he has to report back to the Captain, right?"

"So that's-"

"LaGuerta and Doakes?"

"Ah," I reply, "I got it."

"Relax, Dexter, LaGuerta and Doakes are running point on the Dahlia Case, they're presenting all the facts. We've got those serial stabbings showing up Downtown, and we've already got a suspect pinned for it, so we'll be fine."

"Yeah, but Doakes always loves a good briefing when I'm speaking."

"Look, I know Doakes doesn't like you, but if you just get your facts down right, tell the LT what you think about the case, there can't be a shot in hell that they'll ignore you. Besides, aren't you friends with Morgan's daughter? I think that'll lend you a little more leeway."

"Thanks, Angel," I thank him, smiling a fake smile, "the stuff I'd get into without you."

"Hey, don't worry about it, there's more than just helping you out that factors into it."

"Oh yeah?"

"If he gets you promoted, then he's got a partner," a short little Asian man says, walking up to the box of donuts, which I open to let him inspect, "and, Dex, you'll be doing me a favor if you get promoted, too."

"Why?"

"Because then a new officer takes your place," the short man continues.

That's Vince Masuka, resident pervert of Miami Metro Homicide. He's the Forensics Guy, good at his job, but just plain awful at PR. I think even _I'm _better. I think the only thing that allows that man to keep his job is the fact that María LaGuerta, the only female on the Homicide Team, is too intimidating for the man to sexually harass.

"So?" I ask, confused

Batista and Masuka share a knowing look:

"Are you that dense, Moser?" Masuka snorts, "Morgan's daughter's a rising star in Vice."

I nod, waiting for him to continue.

"Dex, she's a shoe-in. With her father as Lieutenant and Matthews as Captain, she's got more recommendations than you did," Batista replies when he realizes I don't get it.

"I didn't have any recommendations," I reply, confused, Lieutenant Morgan took me on only after a few months of patrol duty, saying that I 'had potential'.

"Yeah, but solving that Darius murder a few years back in, what, ten minutes did you a big favor," Masuka replies, "in any case, if you make Detective, young Debbie Morgan takes your place, and I know we'll all be disappointed to see you leave behind the office for brighter pastures-"

"-A desk?" I snort, looking over at the empty desk near the double doors of Miami Metro's Homicide Department.

"-but I think you'll be easily forgotten when she steps in," Masuka finishes over me.

"Um...okay," I reply, taking a look at the Dahlia case file, going over the suspect I've targeted, not really paying attention to Masuka, who apparently realizes the crux of my nonchalance:

"Dude, Dex," Masuka stares disbelievingly at my apathy, "you've known her since grade school and you never once saw how smokin' she is?"

"Ah...no. Not really," I say, trying to shoo the man away, having seen something very unfortunate in my periphery. Batista apparently notices as well, making silent cues for the shorter man to stop, who, of course, doesn't listen:

"Jesus, Dex, how are you _not _trying to bone her?" He asks, incredulous.

"Self-restraint and respect for my well-being," I snark, indicating something behind Vince, who turns and sees Lieutenant Harry Morgan standing no less than four feet behind him, boring holes right into the Forensic Investigator's forehead.

Harry is like a second father to me. More than that, really. Sometimes, he was the first. For some reason, he took an interest in me as a child, and it continued on as I got older. It's probably what got me into Homicide to begin with.

"Well, the reason why I won't fire you on the spot for talking that way about my daughter really is because you haven't got a chance," the Morgan states soberly, in a dryly hilarious way-or, at least, it appears so, because Batista starts laughing, I chuckle a little as well to avoid looking suspicious. Vince looks slightly embarrassed but shrugs it off:

"That's why I love you, LT," Masuka starts. I think now is the appropriate time to insert a comical comment:

"I don't think you've got a shot with daddy Morgan either," I interject, Batista holds out his palm for a high-five, which I complete. Harry chuckles and Masuka laughs in a hyperbolic manner, sneering at me:

"No, he knows how to take a good joke," the man glares.

"Something you haven't learned yet," Batista retorts good-naturedly.

"I would take it lightly if all your jokes weren't shit," Masuka deadpans, before giggling like a madman and stalking off to his corner of the Department headquarters.

"Moser," I perk up at the sound of Harry saying my name, "are you ready for the briefing?"

"Looks like it," I reply, grabbing the loose case files, "just let me gather my stuff and I'll be right there."

* * *

><p>"Donald Fernández," I point at the picture of a Cuban male in his mid-30's, dark-skinned, with a thin goatee, splayed from a projector. His hair is jet black, his cheeks gaunt, sallow; there's evidence of high, prominent cheek bones. What's most telling, however, are his eyes. His eyes are dark, dark because there's nothing below it, just a swell of ignorance and idiosyncrasies central to such foolish killers-madness and stupidity entwined into one chaotic, retarded, mash-up.<p>

He's a killer. I know it. My darkness has gone out and found a kindred spirit in this man, but it's been satiated enough by Mr. McDowell to keep me from hunting him down on my time.

I don't understand why people leave their kills in the open. It seems so counter-productive...unless, I'm missing something? Probably not, the other detectives would say that most killers are just psychotic, they don't care where they place their bodies. I doubt that, I think they're just mind-numbingly stupid.

"And why does this man matter?" Harry asks, searching the man's face.

"We know that these victims don't share much in common," I press the clicker, which switches the slide, placing the pictures of three women, "they lived in different areas; they were from different ethnic, social, and religious backgrounds; they were different people altogether. The only thing they share is death and a missing left ring finger, it would seem," I indicate the amputation of their fingers before switch to the picture of a fourth victim, a man, "he doesn't fit into the pattern at all, it's likely this man was killed because of his relationship with our third victim, Ms. Johnson."

"So?" A dark-skinned man interrogates. Detective James Doakes, former Spec-Ops turned Homicide Detective, he's not what you'd call the _nicest_ person to me.

"One thing they _do _share in common, however, is this man," I speak over the Detective, "all of them, according to friends and family, have dated this man in the past two years."

"Could be coincidence," Harry starts quietly.

"Would be, if we hadn't found too many inconsistencies. Fernández did not show up for work on any of the nights corresponding with the murders, and, of course, there's the defensive wounds on our third victim, Mary Johnson."

"What did you find on it?" Harry asks as I switch to the next slide, a picture of the blood underneath the woman's fingers.

"Masuka says he'll be getting back the blood report in after lunch; after that, I'll know for sure," I reply.

"Wait, the other two victims were drugged and killed, what's different about this victim that she fought back?" Comes a voice from behind Doakes, a female voice, that of Sergeant María LaGuerta.

"You're right, Sergeant, our first two victims were found with trace amounts of Rohypnol in their bodies, meaning they were drugged, Ms. Johnson, on the other hand, was not. She was awake for the whole thing, meaning there was something special about this woman that made him especially violent."

"And what do you think that is?" Harry asks.

"Well, Lieutenant," I begin, "Ms. Johnson entered a very serious relationship with another man, Mr. Fred Stockton. Fernández had accused her of cheating on him with Stockton, harasses them for a little while, and then they both end up dead."

"Why?" Doakes asks.

"Fernández wanted Johnson to see Mr. Stockton die, but he took him out of the picture pretty quick, two quick stab wounds to the aorta and then the jugular, the man bled out incredibly fast, and the blood castoffs prove it," I switch the next slide, a picture of the wall, "see all that clotting and the smearing effect there? He wanted him out of the picture really fast.

"Ms. Johnson's death was slower, the deep pools of blood indicate that he spent his time playing with her-that's love, I guess," I finish, a cheery grin on my face after speaking so lightly of something so 'grisly'.

"That's fucked-up, Moser," Doakes begins, "you've got a really morbid fucking sense of humor, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yeah, actually. My mother tells me that all the time," I reply nonchalantly, grinning at my muscular nemesis, whose face contorts into a territorial glare.

"Detective, Officer," Harry starts severely, "I will not see this happen today, there's too much to do without worrying about your pissing contest."

"Sorry, Lieutenant," Doakes begins without really meaning it.

"Won't happen again," I respond cheerily, flashing the Lieutenant a jaunty smile.

"Make sure it doesn't," Harry orders, "tell me when you get that blood report back. If it's Fernández's, I can get a judge to sign off on a warrant and you and Batista can pick him up. And don't miss the_ real_ briefing; we'll be having it at three this afternoon. Don't blow it off." The Morgan gives me a pointed look.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Lieutenant," I reply.

"That's all, dismissed," Harry barks while standing up and walking out of the briefing room.

* * *

><p>It's always good to keep oneself occupied when a stressful situation finds itself burgeoning. The bloodwork on Mary Johnson is still waiting to be processed, giving me another two-to-three hours of soul-crushing boredom. Of course, I can entertain Doakes and return the glare he is trying to set me on fire with from halfway across the Department Floor. But, why would I do that, when there's a much more darling dear to demand Dexter's attention?<p>

I stand up, fixing a bored stare upon my muscular friend, his gaze doesn't leave me even as I return the favor. The question begs to ask, though, why this man, of all people, who plays fast and loose with _all _conceivable police procedural tenets, thinks that there's something wrong with me.

He wouldn't be wrong of course, but the question is, why? Is his Darkness coming out to meet mine, testing it, prodding and poking-both of us set on opposite sides though we have similar intentions. Well, not similar _intentions, _per se, but similar...outcomes?

I turn to walk towards the elevators, going to see my favorite gal, when I hear Doakes's grating, barking baritone call out harshly to me:

"Where you think you're going, Moser?" He asks in a terse, gruff manner, hate barely concealed beneath his dark gaze.

Poke and prod all you want, Shadow Doakes, you'll never find Dexter's Darkness out of its element:

"I'm on the stabbing case, no blood, no trabajo!" I respond tersely.

"Doesn't mean you can fucking leave," he warns.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, just have to get something out of my car," I wave off the other man's warning before stepping into the elevator.

"I'm watching you, Moser," Doakes retorts; I nod, watching the doors close in front of me.

* * *

><p>"I told you, Camilla, I'm an awful insomniac. Sometimes ordering Case Files puts me to sleep like a baby," I defend myself, looking into the files of what could very well be my next kill.<p>

"Maybe you should be out doing something else on Thursday nights, Dexter. When are you going to find yourself a girl, Dex? You look sick, a girl would know how to feed you right," the middle-aged woman fusses with a slight southern drawl over my, admittedly, sickly appearance. This is Camilla Figg, a friend of both the Morgan and Moser families.

"Too much to worry about already," I give her a 'dashing Dexter' smile, the one meant to put people at ease, "a girl would just make me age."

"That's a bit cynical of you, Mr. Moser," she jokes, "now what would your father think of that?"

I don't know what he'd think. He died eleven years ago.

"I don't know," I respond, "probably tell me to find someone who doesn't annoy me."

"Well, you're gonna have a hard time with that, Dex," she grins, "ain't no one in the world that perfect. Your father'd have been a fool to say that."

"Well, he also said _you _were perfect, so I guess he wasn't a complete fool."

"Oh, shush, you're just saying that!" She shoos away any flattery as I stand from the chair and make known my need to leave, "just don't let anyone catch you looking into these files, I could lose my job if you do."

"Now why would I let that happen?" I ask, matching Camilla's earlier grin as I walk backwards out her door.

* * *

><p>"Debra tells me you're going to see your mother?" Harry asks, standing by his car. I walk out, fingering the keys to my own car:<p>

"Yeah," I reply, "I don't get to see the rest of the family all that often, so I think I'll visit for a short while." Crap. I had completely forgotten about visiting the Funeral Home. I had planned on using my lunch hour for more..._becoming_ pursuits. See, as a cop, I need a warrant to search a suspect's home, as Shadow Dexter, however, well...he doesn't bother with them.

"Come on," Harry beckons me, "save your gas. I'm driving back to my house to pick up a few things, I'd like the company."

"Uhm...okay," damn; there's no getting out of this now, "let me just set these files in my car."

"What files are those? The Fernández one?"

"Yeah," I lie, walking over to my car.

It's actually the case file of one Samuel Algren, a man who got away with the perfect crime-killing his wife. Raped her, shot her in the face with a Magnum, said it was done during a home invasion post-coitus, a poor schmuck neighbor took the fall for it. It didn't help poor neighbor that it was his gun used in the crimes, but it certainly helped Algren, despite that the trajectory of the shot was too tall to be a 5'6" Asian man, and instead matches that of someone 5'10": Samuel's height. But that was before Masuka's time in Homicide, so Algren probably got lucky.

I don't particularly loathe him for killing his wife, or framing an innocent man, in fact, I can understand why it would come so naturally to him. Women _must_ be annoying to sociopaths. Don't get me wrong, I'm fond of the women in my life, but to have a woman always in my life-always interfering in my business, always meddling-that would be hell. I'd probably kill her, too.

And the next bachelor is Dexter Moser: He's 29, a charming college graduate, very eligible, but watch where you step..._ladies_.

In any case, I don't question his motives, I care that he did it. I don't care much about serving the community because, really, I think I could've chosen a better path. All I care about is stuffing him into a few bags of black 'Hefty's and stuffing the remnants of his soul into my little box of dreams. I don't care about anything else.

You see, the thing that separates me from people like Harry Morgan and James Doakes is that they've got a 'moral center', everything they do is planned, they have to know _why_ they do things. Yes, I know I plan for my kills, and make sure they're deserving of the knife, but that's because I like the challenge.

Like Doakes and Harry, I know 'what' and 'how' of what I do, but when it comes to 'why', I don't know-I feel like a kid racing cars, what would I do if I beat one? I don't need a reason. The joy is in doing it, not finding the reason behind it-the 'why' kills the joy.

"Take a seat, Dex," Harry orders once I step up to the passenger side door of his police cruiser. I comply, opening the door and sitting inside the hot car, Harry follows suit right after.

"You know, your brother really wants you to open up to him," Harry lets slip as he starts the car.

"So does Mom, and Deb, and Dee, and Ben," I snort, "but the answer's the same to all of them: no."

"So you chose me to confide in rather than any of your three siblings, your mother, or your best friend," Harry deadpans.

"Well, you did teach me a lot," I reply.

"And that somehow got you involved in the Bosnian War?" Harry asks, disbelievingly.

"Only the tail end of it," I reply, "I was there for only a year."

"Still, Dex, you were ghost for _six_ years and then you suddenly reappeared. The secrecy, the scars, the sudden interest in crime, your sudden aptitude for firearms, wouldn't any of that seem off to you if you were any of your family?"

"I wouldn't know," I reply. I feel like I'm being lectured by my father, but Harry and I were always close for being completely unrelated. It freaked my mother out to no end, sometimes, but my father would always laugh it off. He said he was always going to be working and Harry would be more than willing to go hunting. _'The boy needs a real father,' _he joked once.

Maybe that's why I chose him over anyone else to talk to about my time outside the country.

"Well, at least you're making an effort," Harry sighs, pulling up to a stoplight, "which is more than I can say for myself."

"You and Deb fight again?" I ask wearily.

"No," the old lieutenant sighs, "I just don't know how to..._talk _to her. I spent so much time with my job that I sometimes forgot that Debra even existed."

"That's understandable," I start. But it isn't really, he neglected his own daughter in favor of the son of the guy who lived down the street. I wonder if my father ever thought that was strange.

"No, not really. I spent more time hunting with you than talking to my daughter. Sometimes I feel like _you've _been a better father to her than I have."

"Are you kidding?" I ask, a slightly upward curve on my lips to indicate I'm joking-the 'facetious Dexter' facial expression, "of course I'm the better father!"

"You're probably right, Dex," he grins, taking a right turn, "you're probably right. Maybe that's why I'm doing this, though. For the both of you."

"For the both of us?" I ask, confused.

"Dex, you've done some great things over the past three years," Harry begins soberly, "and if this Fernández case pans out, that will have been another solved case for you and Batista. Both of you guys are brilliant, we need more people like you."

I remain silent, but give him an expectant look:

"So that's why I've recommended you to the Detective position," he finishes.

And now, the facial expression I like to call 'The Grateful Dex' appears on my face; it's something between an open-mouthed stare and a wide, wide grin:

"Are you serious?" I ask; I think that's what normal people would ask.

"Are you?" Harry asks seriously.

"Uh...am I?" I question.

"I don't know," he begins, "you sure don't seem it."

"I-"

"-you don't have to lie to me, Dexter, I'm your friend," Harry replies, "just take it in stride. You know, Debra's a candidate to take your position once you take the Detective shield. I want you to mentor her."

"Mentor her?" Why can't Harry do that himself?

"I don't think I have much time left as the Lieutenant," Harry sighs, rubbing his chest with a rueful grin, "heart problems. I think Deb might already resent me too much, and I won't be able to help her much longer."

"That's not true. Deb became a cop to impress you," I reply, scanning the streets for any cross traffic.

"To impress me?" Harry snorts sarcastically, but instantly sobers upon seeing my face.

"Maybe you haven't been spending enough time around your daughter after all," I reply with a patented 'reassuring Dex' smile, "you should probably get to know her instead of asking me to be your surrogate."

Harry nods, understanding what I'm saying. Ah, no-nonsense Harry, he always knows what to do-even if he needs a little guidance, sometimes.

* * *

><p>"Ma?" I call, stepping into the foyer of my childhood home, "Dee? Ben?"<p>

"Dex!" I hear a joyous female voice call out from behind me. I whirl around in time to catch a blonde blur tackle me into a hug. This is my half-sister, Deidre Moser. She's 24, the sweetest thing in the world, and I would kill for her. Well, I suppose that doesn't mean much from a person like me, but you get the sentiment, right? That being said, enjoying murdering people really is an added bonus to protecting your siblings.

"Hey, Dee," I wrap my arms around her, that's what normal people would do, after all, "how're you doing?"

"I should be asking you that," she playfully swats at my arm as she breaks away from the embrace, "you barely visit, you don't come with us to church anymore, nearly four years since you've been back and your still a ghost." Right, Dee's also hardcore religious. I'd like to, but I haven't got the heart to tell her that I don't believe in God or 'life everlasting'. I certainly hope I won't live on forever; hell seems like an awful place.

"Yeah, sorry about that," I employ the 'Sheepish Dex' pose: rubbing the back of my head in a, well,_ sheepish_ way, "work, you know?"

"Yeah, big Miami Metro Officer now, Harry told us all about your exploits," Dee grins, "solving a case in ten minutes?"

"Now, that's just a myth," I wave my hand dismissively.

"Whatever you say, brother," she rubs my shoulder in what I assume is a showing of familial affection.

"Dee, are you with someone?" A woman's voice calls from one floor above: where the actual 'house' is.

"Just Dex, ma!" Dee calls to the source of the voice: my mother, Laura Moser.

"Dexter?" I hear my mother call; surprised.

"Yeah, mom, I'm here!" I reply, matching her volume.

"You've come just in time for lunch, we'll be ready in ten minutes!" Mom says; I assume she's in the kitchen, now.

"Have you seen Ben?" I ask Dee.

"Downstairs with a body," my sister responds warmly, "you should go see him."

I nod, thanking her, making my way towards the basement.

* * *

><p>My father, Norman Moser, almost spent his entire life down here in the basement. I don't know why, but he took his work very seriously. I guess it's a trait he passed to me. My mother always jokes that she knew Norman was perfect for her the minute she found out they had the same surname. It's a strange reason to fall in love with a person, but she does say it was a joke, and even if it wasn't, stranger things have happened, right?<p>

I suppose it was the basement, where my father prepared the dead bodies that I first found my morbid curiosity in corpses. They were pretty, people just lying there, lifeless and cold-like a porcelain doll. While I get the feeling that it was hunting animals with Harry that first introduced me to the wide world of murder, it's undeniable that this morgue, with its cold stone walls and bleach smell influenced me. It was order. I like order.

_"It's easy to get cynical when you work in this business," _I can almost hear the echoes of Norman's voice, tempered by years of heavy smoking, ringing throughout my head, _"sometimes, you might even find yourself enjoying their pain. Promise me you'll never get cynical, Dexter."_

I promised him I wouldn't, but there are just some promises you can't keep. I feel my feet slam heavily into the creaky wooden stairs each time I descend into the sterile jungle where Dexter Moser's hidden darkness was born.

I look through the window into the embalming room where I notice a male figure, of about medium height, bending over what appears to be an ancient old man, preparing him for his date with the earth. He turns quickly when I knock on the window, brown eyes shining in delight as I meet his:

"Hey, Dex!" He calls jovially.

My foster brother, Benjamin Moser. He looks surprisingly like Brian, though people always say I look more like him. Ben has jet black hair and an angular face, his eyes always seem to be shining with some indiscernible emotion, like he's trying to read you. He's the eldest of the happy Moser foursome at 34; married, with a young child and another one on the way. He's obviously not my full brother, he is the son of Norman and his first wife, Jean, who died a few years before Norman ever met my mother. Ben always resented me for running away from home for six years, but over the past three years, we've gotten closer and bridged the metaphorical gap in our friendship.

"Ben," I reply, equally magnanimous in my manner of speaking-"Jovial Dex", I like to call it, "how's Kathy?" I inquire as to his wife's health as I walk into the embalming room.

"Fantastic," he responds, "found out the gender of our next child."

"Yeah?" Please don't let it be another girl. Girls confuse Uncle Dex.

"It's a boy," he grins.

"Got someone to pass on something to, now?" I ask.

"Eh, something like that," Ben shrugs, "gotta have somebody to carry on your legacy, right?"

"I wouldn't know about that," I deflect; this is a typical segue into a pretty typical older sibling question. I've had Brian ask me it multiple times now that he's shacked up with Rita:

"Speaking of which, when're you gonna find yourself a nice girl?" He finishes stitching the man's stomach.

"You know, Camilla asked me the same thing. It's a little scary to think that my daredevil brother's got the same interests as a fifty-five year-old woman," I snort.

"Hey, my little brother's an interest I _should_ be taking interest in," he replies, in what I think is intended to be a caring tone, "you look sick. You'd be surprised what a woman could do for you."

You'd be surprised what a reciprocating saw could do for me.

"Not ready yet," I shrug, "there's a lot of stuff I've got to slog through myself before I can think of a relationship."

"Yeah," Ben starts, as if reminiscing about better times, "there were times when I thought that, too. I was wrong. Maybe you are, too."

I doubt I am.

"Oh, I am now? So who do you have in mind, Big Brother?" I ask in jest, referencing Ben's favorite novel.

"A blonde," he winks, "someone bubbly, she'll do you wonders-someone like Brian's girlfriend, you know Rita, right?"

"Quite intimately," I cringe, thinking of Wednesday nights. Ben chuckles, giving me a knowing look:

"Loud, aren't they?"

"Understatement o'the century there," I chuckle as well, sitting on one of the medical stools on the other side of the body, "for a woman who was battered so much, she sure does love Brian."

"Well, Brian's always been the womanizer of the family," Ben snorts, "he could charm the pants off a lifelong celibate, provided they were a woman."

"Yeah, well, I'm not Brian," I reply.

"Well, of course not, you're_ normal_," Ben grins, I grin as well, but at the sheer absurdity of the statement, rather than the actual joke, "we mere humans have to find ourselves normal girls, rather than the damaged types; I can't even begin to fathom why Brian likes them so much."

"Maybe because our brother likes seeing pain?" I supply.

"Come on, Dex," Ben chastises playfully, finishing the final touches on the man's torso, "we may have our hang-ups, but no one in our family's _that _strange."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I lie after a long pause.

"Dex, Ben? Lunch is ready!" I hear Dee's voice from the top of the stairwell.

"Thanks, sis!" Both of us call to our little sister.

"Need help moving the body?" I ask

"Much obliged, just put on some gloves and help me cart this one back to the morgue. Dansk will take care of the final touches once he gets back from lunch."

I already have the gloves snapped on.

* * *

><p>"Would you mind if Harry joined us for lunch?" My mother asks. Even at 55, Laura Moser is pretty as ever. Three kids and nearly thirty-two years of parenting experience hasn't reduced her in any way. She did a fantastic job raising us, three beautiful children, but sometimes the even best laid plans can be foiled by the pesky youngest brother.<p>

"Not at all," I reply. She nods and rushes out of the parlor and across the street to the Morgan Household, which is now occupied by only one. I see her knock on the door and Harry opens it after a moment. They stop for a minute, speaking, before she leads the grizzled Lieutenant across the street back to our home.

"Fancy seeing you again," Harry says with a smile once we make eye contact as he enters the house.

"Indeed," I quip lightheartedly.

In a flash, we're sitting at a table full of mom's delicious food. After she married Norman, mom turned to cooking, and turns out she's pretty decent at it. Of course, Dee asks to say grace, and our mother and brother bow their heads as my little sister begins her prayers. I look to Harry and he seems to be just as awkward and out of his element at a prayer-filled table as I am; he looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to wave a wand and Dee would shut up.

I shrug apologetically. It's just the way things work around my family. For some strange reason, we're a very religious one.

Finally, after a minute, Dee ends her philosophical one-way rant at God to bless our food and we tuck in, making small talk, and forcing myself to laugh, speak, frown-all when expected, like an actor.

* * *

><p>"That was nice," Harry surmises as we enter his police cruiser, "your mother's food is fantastic."<p>

"Always has been," I reply; Harry grins, like he's remembering something:

"Yeah," he says at length, "I suppose you're right."

"Always am," I snort; if you mix narcissism into your jokes, I've found, sometimes people like you more. If you're narcissistic in everyday speaking, though...

"Dexter Moser, the little genius," Harry smiles, "Debra was heartbroken when she found out you'd been moved up two grades; lost her best friend, she said."

"Brian was overjoyed," I counter blithely, "I remember him laughing about the whole thing. He said that an IQ test was a load of crap, but he was glad that I did well."

We're interrupted as my cell phone rings a stupid jingling tone that makes me want to chuck it out the window. Harry nods silently as I answer the call:

"Moser," I say into the receiver.

"Dexter," it's Batista, "Masuka got the bloodwork back."

"And?"

"Fernández is our guy," he continues, "blood under the fingernails match. Tell the LT, we get a warrant, we may be able to find a murder weapon."

"Aye, aye," I reply, smiling.

"How soon till you get here?" Angel asks.

"Uh...about twenty minutes?"

"Okay, see you then," the Cuban man finishes as I shut off the phone.

"We got a match between Fernández and the blood in the defensive wounds," I say quickly to Harry, "it's still not enough to convict him, but we can get a search warrant, right?"

"I'll make a few calls when we get back to the station," he says, "you and Batista will be leaving _after _the briefing."

Damn. I really _hate _briefings, it's like everybody's watching you. I can handle it, but sometimes that feeling that everyone knows who you really are and that you're just lying your way into the Electric Chair sneaks up on you quit suddenly. Ha. Guess I'm just paranoid.

Wouldn't surprise me.

"I told you, I want you to help Debra get into homicide. Now, I can't do that because of my position-all the politics, but you're going to be a detective, what you do on your time is what you do on _your _time. She's going to be in that briefing room, and I'm asking you as my friend and hers to use that brain of yours to help her."

"Fine," I relent, "would it be wrong to ask for a raise now?"

"Very," Harry quips with a grin, as we both focus on the road and listen to an old Creedence Clearwater Revival song on the radio.

* * *

><p>"Lieutenant got us our warrants, but we have to wait 'til after the briefing to nab that sucker," I say to Batista, who nods and follows me into the large briefing room behind the Lieutenant's office. It's crowded. I hate crowds.<p>

"Dex!" I hear the unmistakable voice of Deb Morgan coming from somewhere. I turn to the source of the voice and find myself colliding into Doakes, who looks at me for a moment, before rendering his oh-so-eloquent verdict:

"Watch where you're going asshole," he sneers.

"Yeah, sorry," I apologize. I know apologizing pisses him off, he's a military guy, sorry just makes him angrier. Angel looks confused as to what to do. He leans in, face mere centimeters from mine:

"Fuck. You."

His breath smells minty fresh, but it's overpowering and kind of makes me want to vomit. Funny, I can't picture Doakes involved in any sort of personal hygiene.

"Hmm...charming," I reply, after spending extended periods of time with Masuka, I find it easy to insult people, "fuck me, fuck you; it's all the same thing really. Though, I'm gonna tell you, I don't usually go for men unless they entertain the courtesy of a reacharound."

Batista tries to stifle his laughter, and so do a few of the guys from Vice. I dig my hands into my pockets, waiting for Doakes's next move in our battle of the words.

"Dexter, stop making a fool of yourself," Harry states from my side, pushing both the Detective and I out of his way as he walks to the podium. Doakes flashes me a dark glare and I flash him a bright grin, before he shoves through my shoulder and off to where LaGuerta sits. Behind him is Deb, who looks confused at the whole exchange:

"Jesus, that guy's an asshole," she remarks.

"That's just class-A Doakes," Batista replies, "I find ignoring him works well."

"And annoying him works even better, I see you ditched the sex suit," I say to Deb, dressed in traditional police garb, while I turn and give Doakes a childish wave when I notice he's still glaring at me.

I can see the darkness in his eyes, it's dim, but it's there. I'll have to watch that one.

LaGuerta notices my insincere waving to her partner and gives me a slight wink, one that I'm fairly sure both Batista and Deb notice. I know it's one of those rituals humans go through for the right to mate and it really confuses me, so I respond with a simple nod-can't be construed as sexual, right?

"Yo, _hermano_, what's up with you and the Sergeant?" Batista asks with a knowing smile.

"Yeah, are you two boning, or something?" Deb asks seriously.

Wait, I-what?

"Ha, good for you!" Batista claps my shoulder discreetly. Batista I can handle, he'd be fine even if I were into male midgets, that's just how much of a genuinely good guy he is, but Deb, on the other hand, seems to be matchmaker for the Moser family. She's had a hand in both Ben's marriage and Brian's relationship with Rita. Funny she's able to take on the role of 'love doctor' for the other men in my family, yet she can't keep her own relationships for longer than two weeks.

I think it's daddy issues.

"Oh. God, Dex, that's gross. She's, like, 38!" Deb's face contorts with disgust.

"I'm not..." I try to explain.

"Hey, I'm not judging," Batista grins. I know you're not, it's my new_ protege_ that is.

"Well I am," Deb makes a puking face as we move to our seats, in the fourth row.

"You don't have to judge, because nothing's going on," I say, following Deb and taking a seat to her left, whilst Batista takes a seat on my other side. I really wish LaGuerta would stop with the winks.

"Whatever you say," Deb replies, still sounding unconvinced as Harry begins speaking:

"As you know," Harry begins with the air of a consummate professional, "we have had two murders of prostitutes in the past three weeks that we believe are meant to be a re-imagining of the Black Dahlia Case. The Black Dahlia was a sensationalized crime from 1947. We will need unity between the Vice and Homicide Departments on this case, and that is why you're here for this joint meeting. Sergeant LaGuerta will be running the Case, and she will be speaking to you on the matter. Sergeant?"

LaGuerta stands up in her chair whilst Harry beckons her over to the podium:

"Our first victim is..." Blah, blah, blah, I don't need to hear this. Two women, both prostitutes in their mid-to-late twenties, both brunette, and both slim, sliced in half at the torso and given a Glasgow Smile, a perfect ripoff of the Black Dahlia case. There are no suspects; he's like a _ghost_. Yawn. I'm not even minutely interested by this guy.

"And our Stabbings case?" Harry asks, looking pointedly at Batista and myself.

"You should take it, Angel," I whisper, "you're the detective, after all."

"You sure, Dex?" Angel asks, "you were the one who found Fernández."

"Ah, technically _we _found him, Angel," I reply, feigning ignorance. The older man nods and stand up from his seat, making his way to the podium.

"We have ourselves a suspect in the case, a construction worker by the name of Donald Fernández," Batista begins reviewing the case I went over in our earlier, Homicide-only briefing, when Deb starts whispering animatedly at me:

"That's it, Dex," she says breathlessly, "that's my fucking way _in_!"

"What's your way in?"

"The way into homicide, the Dahlia Case!" her whispers are quiet, but excited.

"I guess it is, another one's going to die if we don't find out who our killer is," I respond.

"I don't want anymore girls to die," she rubs her forehead wearily, "they do what they have to."

See? That's the 'kindhearted' part I was talking about. I see it in just about everyone I know except myself. Well, and Doakes, but I think that he's hateful out of principle rather than being genuinely soulless.

"Well, look on the bright side, if someone does die, I'll try to get you on the case," I try to reassure her.

"That's the bright side?" She asks incredulously, before smiling at the second part of my sentence, "thanks, Dex."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

* * *

><p>"What a shithole this guy lives in," Batista wrinkles his nose in disgust at the filthy little house Fernández lives in, arms resting on the steering wheel of the car we sit in. I nod:<p>

"You're telling me," I look out at the house from the passenger's seat. I look over to an unmarked white van, which I know carries four heavily armed homicide officers waiting for Batista's signal.

"Hold," Batista orders into his radio, "we need to see him before we make a move."

Wait for it. Wait for it.

"There he is," I say, indicating his shadowy figure in one of the windows. Batista nods, making known he's seen our suspect:

"Okay, we don't want to spook this _maricon_, so I want you to cover the back door, take two men with you." I nod and get out of the car once Batista phones it over to the men in the van. The doors open on opposite the opposite side of the street, away from wherever Fernández's eye might be, and two men armed with M4s and body armor step out. So much for going _incognito_. We try to sneak around the hedges, fortunately the area's densely packed with all sorts of flora to keep us out of sight.

Doesn't change that two men with assault rifles aren't exactly inconspicuous.

Somehow we manage to make it to the backyard without any real trouble, and find ourselves just outside the back door, his yard is empty; no tables or deck chairs-nothing-just as you'd expect a sociopath's home to be. Once we're stationed outside the door, I whisper over the radio to Batista:

"We're in position."

"So are we," he replies calmly, but I can hear a tinge of excitement in his voice, "On my count: Three, two, one-"

I'm already banging on the door:

"Miami Metro Police Department; open up!" There is silence for a moment, before a deafening bang is heard from behind the door. The next thing I know, the wood around the door frame is splintering, breaking off all around me. It's a miracle I haven't been harmed.

"Shotgun!" One of the men yells, "get behind me, Moser!" I comply, slipping behind the man as another round rings out, shattering the doorframe completely, one of the men stumbles, a shotgun pellet had struck him in the leg. The other officer and I push past him:

"We're in!" Batista calls over the radio. Both the uninjured officer and I nod, running headlong into the already-broken door and breaking it completely off its hinges:

"Right behind you!" I yell back as we burst into the kitchen of the dingy home. There's Mr. Fernández, our serial stabber, trying to reload the double barrel shotgun he's carrying. The heavily-armored cop hesitates for the slightest second, but Batista and I have already pounced upon the Latino man, clad in only a wifebeater and boxers.

I grip him from the front, using a trick I learned during my time outside the country for disarming men who wield shotguns: grab both ends of the gun, push down to open the barrels. The grip you have of the gun is even better than that of the assailant's, combine that with the momentary shock of the assailant, you'll be able to swing the shotgun around and give the man a nice whack to the face with the butt end of the gun.

Fernández stumbles back, grabbing at his cheeks, the other officers move in closer, but he ends up falling back into the arms of Batista, who wraps the man in a bear hug, taking him to the ground where they thrash and crash for a moment as I try to cuff the struggling killer. Batista pins the man on the floor and grips his arms, making it easier for me to trap him in the handcuffs. Once he feels that cold metal slide around his wrist, Donald Fernández stops struggling and goes slack, almost as if he's suddenly keeled over and died.

I look over to the side, at the counter-top and grip its side to help me get up whilst Batista pulls up the now captured killer.

"Good work, Detective," I grin.

"Likewise, officer," Batista replies, matching my grin as we turn to the four men who helped us; the one who'd been shot is being helped by two of the other men. We thank them.

* * *

><p>"Detective Batista, Officer Moser?" One of the Forensics guys call, running alongside Masuka, who carries a rather stylized box.<p>

"Yeah?" Batista asks, giving a severe look at the now nearly-catatonic Fernández, who sits inside .

"Look at what we found," Masuka says, opening the box, "hello pretties," he smiles, looking at three severed ring fingers.

"We've just found ourselves a winner," Batista can't help but smile. I'm not particularly happy, then again, I never am, but I like to share their sentiment and make myself look a little approachable with a small smile of my own.

"Not yet, exactly," Masuka grins, "still gotta test the fingers, but it's looking pretty obvious that this is our guy. Wonder what he did with these things?"

"Probably used them as trophies," I say, admiring Fernández's little box of dreams, so similar, and yet so different from mine, "killers have an obsession with trophies. It allows them to remember the kill, relive it."

"Sick shit, this stuff," Masuka snorts, looking at the fingers, "it's easy to forget sometimes how morbid this profession really is."

"Too easy," Batista replies, 'but, hey, I got my wife and daughter at the end of the day."

"I got a crazy tattoo-lover who isn't exactly shy waiting for me at my place," Masuka nods, grinning like a maniac, "what about you, Dex?"

I've got my little box of dreams, like Fernández over here.

"I've got a bed," I deadpan, a thin smile on my lips. Batista and Masuka chuckle:

"Good thing to have, _hermano_," Batista says good-naturedly.

"But you should try a woman," Masuka cuts off the Detective, "there's some raunchy, naughty stuff a fine piece of ass could do for you, Dex."

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, not really paying attention to the short Asian scientist.

* * *

><p>"Good work, Dex," Harry grins, clapping my back as I ease into a chair in his office. I nod, a 'Humble Dex' smile on my face, "your father would be proud."<p>

Would he?

_'Of course I would,_' I hear his scratchy voice in the back of my head; and for a moment, I think I can see my tall, balding, father standing behind Harry, speaking directly to me, _'you're my son, and you are loved.'_

"Something tells me he would be," I reply, "maybe."

"Maybe? Absolutely," Harry chides, "your solve rate is damn near perfect; and you and Batista, we could use more men like you two."

"I'm flattered," I relax back in my seat, thinking of Fernández's trophies. maybe everyone has their own type of trophies, and maybe every killer has his own little mahogany box sitting in his Air Conditioning unit. It's slightly comforting to think that there are others like me, and that I may not have to be surrounded by the 'normal' dregs of humanity forever. Harry has remained quiet, staring at me in an unreadable way. I wonder what he's thinking?

A sudden knock at Harry's closed door breaks the contemplative silence and our own respective dark thoughts:

"Come in," Harry barks, seemingly unperturbed.

The door opens, revealing an aging white man, his hair is the color of charcoal, but his eyes are as vibrant and searching as ever-quintessential cop eyes, they make me feel uncomfortable. This is Captain Thomas Matthews, a friend of Harry's and practically Deb's uncle. Of course, I was never really close to Matthews, but he and I have kept a very friendly relationship since I first met him through Harry as a teenager.

"Captain," I greet, standing up to shake his hand, as one would expect is common courtesy. Matthews waves me away:

"Dexter, I think we're past the need for formal greetings," he says quietly, in that gruff, scratchy voice-the quintessential cop voice.

"Oh, um, okay," I pull my outstretched arm away from the Captain and smile.

"Fantastic work you do out there, Moser," Matthews says, looking out over the Homicide Department.

"Thank you, sir," I respond without missing a beat.

"Harry took a chance on you," Matthews turns to look at the Lieutenant, "and it paid off really well. One can only hope our next officer is one that can fill out your shadow."

"Next?" I ask.

"Your replacement," Matthews smiles casually, "after you take the Detective Shield."

Interesting.

"Oh, I-uh, wow," I pretend to be speechless, "I don't know what to say, Captain."

"A yes would do," Harry says from behind me.

"That indeed, it would," Matthews replies to his colleague; he reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a badge much mike my laminate, but with the Silver Detective's Shield across it. He stretches out his arm in front of me, holding the shield as if it's some great prize.

"Then a yes it is!" I exclaim in what I hope is an excited, animated tone.

"Congratulations," Matthews says, handing over the Detective's Shield as I take my Officer's Badge off and hand it to him, "_Detective _Moser."

"Thank you, sir," I say sincerely.

"You should join me for a round of golf sometime, Dexter," Matthews starts, his gruff voice taking on a lighter tone, "you might find you enjoy it."

"Count me in, Captain," I reply before Matthews leaves the room, he nods in acknowledgment and shuts the door softly behind him. I stand, looking at the shiny new badge for a few moments silently until Harry breaks the silence with his own two cents:

"I'm proud of you, Dex," he says.

In some ways, I'm proud of me, too.

* * *

><p>"So I heard you and Batista nabbed that stabbity fucker," Deb says, seated in the passenger's seat of my, admittedly, very average car.<p>

"Yeah, the officers did most of the work, though. Better equipped, and all," I say, taking a left turn.

"That's not what I heard," the Morgan says cheekily, "_I _heard you used some fancy disarming technique on him, and Batista literally took him out. When the other homicide officers were talking about it in the elevator, Doakes said it was some sort of Red Army Tactic, or something."

"Doakes can say whatever he wants," I snort, lying.

"Ha, my neighbor the secret KGB agent," Deb replies, daydreaming, "yeah, Doakes is probably full of it. Red Army shit, my ass. But, hey, Dad told me you've got a surprise for me."

I do?

"I do?" I ask, echoing my very intelligent thoughts.

"I dunno, something about work, he said," she says nonchalantly. I immediately understand that Harry intended for me to tell her that I've made detective.

"Oh!" I employ the use of the 'Happy Dex' smile, "Harry must've meant this," I fish around my pocket and pull out the new, shiny, Detective's badge and hand it to Deb, who snatches it out of my hands.

"Detective...Dexter Moser?" My childhood best friend looks up at me with an unabashed grin.

"I know, who thinks to give _me _a badge, am I right?" I ask; bad joke, I know. Deb doesn't seem to care, though:

"Jesus, Dex, that's great!"

"I know, but you know what's even better?" I ask, Deb inclines her head as if to prompt me to continue, "there's space for a new officer in Homicide, now. And, with a little help from a Detective with free time on his hands, I foresee Debra Morgan taking that space."

Deb lets out a very un-Deb-like squeal:

"Oh, God, thank you, Dexter!" She exclaims, displaying the widest grin I've ever seen on her face.

"Hey, no problem," I try to calm her, "I'll even try to help you on this Dahlia case."

Deb rocks back and forth in her seat, quite literally the picture of jubilee. I turn my sight to the road for a moment before feeling a sharp pain come to my shoulder.

"Ow!" I yell as force of habit, "I'm not going to help you if you keep punching me!"

"You'd really do that for me?" She asks.

"Of course; you're like my little sister," I assure her; Deb just looks at me gratefully.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Mr. Algren," I smile a quiet, little smile at the trapped man. It's been a day since I talked to Deb on the way home, Harry gave me the day off, thought I could use some rest-wonder what he'd think if he knew what I <em>actually <em>do on days off.

"Who-who are you?" Ah, yes, he can't see my face. I'm wearing a white, silk mask that covers my identity. I wear it sometimes, usually with those who don't matter all that much to me. I move closer to him, the mask must be obscuring my confusion:

"Why would you ask me who I am?" I question, "it seems redundant to ask a masked man who he is."

"Fuck you!"

"If you insist," I snort, "I'm the man who's going to kill you. You killed your wife didn't you?"

"No!" He cries out. Wow, he can fake repulsion with ease, it surprises even me, "it was Harper!" Harper's the neighbor, the poor schmuck who took the fall for Algren. He doesn't need to lie, I found evidence of Mr. Algren's indiscretion during my 'visit' to his home, video tapes. Four other women, raped, beaten, finished with a bullet to the head. Trophies like that, they're too obvious. His little box of dreams was far too easy to find.

"Liar," I growl, gripping his throat, squeezing around his Adam's Apple, "would you like to try again?" I ask, letting go of his throat, watching gleefully as he coughs and hacks.

"Harper, the neighbor-he did it!" He tries to lie again.

"Stop lying to me or I'll carve your voicebox out of your fucking throat," I inject the right amount of menace into my voice, slapping his face rather deftly, before moving to cut his face with the scalpel in my right hand.

"Okay, okay, I killed her," he says, cringing at the cut on his cheek.

"And why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to, and I'm not sorry. I'll never be sorry for it! I don't have to explain myself to you!"

"I know you don't, but I'm glad," I reply.

"Glad for what, psycho?"

"That you're not sorry," I shrug, picking out a rather wickedly curved trench knife I picked up in Germany, running my hands over the silver stainless knife.

"And why's that?" Algren growls; his voice is uneven and shaky.

"Because I'm not sorry either," I reply, stalking to him, feeling free like a gazelle, or a kid chasing a car-so exciting- as I drive the knife straight into his chest. I feel skin and sinew and muscle and bone give way to the heart. Algren's heart may be stopping its frantic beating now, but it hasn't been working for a long time. He's been dead for a long time.

Like me, I guess.

* * *

><p>I'd like to be able to say that there's not much to me, but when I look into this little brown box, wooden and unassuming, I see the neatly ordered dreams of a broken child. Maybe that's all I am, just a child, and not much more. But, I'm a dynamic child, one that has to pretend in the company of regular people, and each day, it gets easier.<p>

It would be easy to try and run away again, become some cross-country murdering savage, but sometimes it's putting the people who love you in danger that precisely makes them all that much more. And if the world becomes too tough, as it often does, there's a plethora of scum on Miami's streets to provide me a bit of fun and entertainment.

Samuel Algren makes thirty-seven; thirty-seven people's souls live on in my little box of dreams, waiting in my Air Conditioning unit to help me realize that despite what I am, despite who I others think I am, life's good.

Really, really good.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>_Yeah, life's good for Dexter Moser, but not for much longer. The next chapter, 'Kaleidoscope' will be out sometime after the ninth chapter of WF. I know there are things within the continuity of the fic that may come off as strange when compared to the real storyline (Dexter being an officer rather than Forensics, and Brian dating Rita, as well as the inclusion of two other siblings), but there's method to my madness, I swear! Dexter's urge to kill also has to do will be explained as the story goes on, as well, because in the original Dexter, it's because Laura dies, since this is a universe where she hasn't, I've got to be a little more ingenious. The title's a reference to the Soundgarden album, which just seemed right, since everything's so flip-flopped in this continuity. At the moment, I haven't really got a pairing in mind, because this Dexter is a little bit too inhuman for such thoughts as of yet, however, that doesn't mean there won't be-it just won't occur near the beginning of the fic. Debra's the secondary character because she will be Dexter's 'partner' as the fic goes on, and unofficial love interest-she's got a better shot than anyone else, right now. Thanks for reading, and please leave me a review. They make my soul sing._

Geist_._


	2. Problem Child

**Summary: **About three weeks after Dexter makes detective, the Dahlia copycat killer has all but stopped killing, leading many to believe that he's left town, but the murder of a prostitute leads Harry and Debra to believe that the killer is still in Miami. Meanwhile, the murder leaves quite an impression on Dexter, who has been experiencing severe coughing fits, a tender throat, insomnia, and weight loss over these past few weeks; Brian and Deb both recommend he see a doctor.

**Down on the Upside**

* * *

><p><em>"The moment you think you understand a great work of art, it's dead for you."<em>

-Oscar Wilde

* * *

><p><strong>'Problem Child'<strong>

* * *

><p><em>January 30, 2005<em>

Oscar Wilde said once that the moment you see think you understand a work of art; you've killed it. But is that really true? Can art really be that simple; it's alive until we understand it? I hope it isn't. If it were, then the entire world would lose meaning. Water wouldn't be water, beauty wouldn't be beauty, blood wouldn't be blood.

I grab for a bar of soap, nearly losing the slippery little thing as I bring it close to my chest to steady it. Showers have been the one good thing I've had for the past few weeks. I thought that after three weeks of being a detective, my life would be looking great-I have a good job, a good home, a good family and a woman to hide the monster inside me-what I find, instead, is my own degrading health: severe coughing fits, weight loss, my bones ache, and insomnia. All that bad stuff, I guess. I've lost ten pounds in the over the past few weeks, and I have no idea why.

Brian sees the sudden change in me and has said to see the doctor, but I don't know if I want to. It's probably just a bad bug going around, my immune system's been letting me down a lot lately, but hey, what can you do?

I turn off the water and dry myself, walking to my room, and looking at the suit I'm expected to wear to the gallery. I don't particularly like suits, but I've found I can live with them. I reach down for the sports coat laid out on my bed, before finding myself wracked in a coughing fit, which causes me to bend over for a few moments until a sharp pain in my chest recedes, but not before I knock something over off my nightstand. I try to swallow, but my throat is tender. It must be a really bad cold I've caught.

I look down to see what I fell on the ground, it's an old, cracked kaleidoscope lined with blue and purple stripes. I grab at is if I had just burned the Bible, holding the old cylinder delicately in my hands. I look inside to see shattered colors and broken patterns, before sighing in relief and bringing it down to my chest. All is well; I have enough time to flash a small, sad smile at that beautiful little thing before I wrap on the sports jacket and walk out of the room, off to find my date.

* * *

><p>"What do you think of this one, Dex?" She asks slowly. I look to see a picture of four prostitutes hanging on the cream-white walls behind it, all smoking cigarettes and conversing on a street corner, which I identify as Calle Ocho, at night. It's a somber and beautiful photograph, but to me, it's the same old drivel.<p>

"Uh...It's okay, Eliza," I reply, nodding at the painting and her. Eliza is a Forensic Scientist in Vice; she approached me a few weeks ago, asking for a date, and I accepted. Who am I to deny a girl a bit of Dexter Moser, and who am I to deny myself the opportunity to look more normal? She's brunette, of average height, and quite attractive. Her personality, on the other hand, has made very little impression.

We're currently standing in an art gallery that my sister and a friend of hers opened up with a bit of spare money. It's surprising how many people enjoy their work-I had thought the Mosers and Morgans were the only ones that would be coming.

"I think it's absolutely delightful!" she exclaims in a falsely sweet way, "it's a fantastic look into the world of prostitutes!"

She looks enamored by the photograph, maybe because she's in Vice. They tend to be more sympathetic to hookers than most Homicide guys, and certainly more sympathetic than _I_ am. I smile, nodding at her, as we move on.

She's alright, I guess.

Next we come up to an oil painting of a man sitting in a room, looking out into the blackness outside his window. This is disturbing, something I really enjoy, it's the existential 'bullshit'-as my father would've liked to say-that really gets me contemplating my own life; its vices, its strengths, its beginnings, its ends. This is a beautiful painting, a work of art.

"No," Eliza shakes her head, "this one isn't nice at all. It's too depressing."

"How are you enjoying yourself, Dex?" A lilting voice comes from behind me; I turn to see my sister is the source of the sweet noise.

"Very well, thank you, Dee," I grin.

"Dee?" Eliza grins, "like Dexter and Dee Dee?"

You'd be surprised how often that lame joke comes up at social gatherings where both Dee and I are present.

"Something like that, Eliza," I nod before introducing the two, "Eliza Taggart, Deidre Moser. Deidre Moser, Eliza Taggart."

"Pleasure to meet you," Eliza puts on courteous, beatific smile in the presence of the blonde, "this is a fantastic gallery you've got here, it must have cost a fortune!" Eliza adds indicating the chic cream walls, the hardwood flooring, and the soft lighting that feels something like the afternoon glow.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Taggart," Dee responds, matching Eliza's courteous smile, "it's actually a lot cheaper than you think."

"Well, I'll leave you here to get to know each other," I deflect, eager to be out of Eliza's presence, "I think I see a painting that deserves a glance or two."

"Which one?" Dee asks, looking around at the many different paintings.

"That one," I point at a painting on the far side of the gallery. It's not so much a painting as slashes and swirls of red and blue paint over a black sheet. Eliza nods in the affirmative, standing by and conversing with my sister while I move to that painting.

It's a work of art, really. There are liquid droplets of red, like blood, spatters of it, mixing with whirl tides of blues and slashes of greens, melding and forming into a sort of drip pattern-like a Jackson Pollock-it's a mind-numbing array of colors and dashes and people and places inside what appears to be nothing more than scribbles. This painting means everything, the chaos, quiet, confused, of the material and nihilistic culture of America-the very representation of a world where men like me have been left behind, casting droplets of red blood across the inky blackness of the world, among the blues and greens of the 'civilized' man. I assume I must be looking at the painting in awe, or with an agape mouth, because people have begun to stare.

"This _would_ be the painting you'd like," a familiar female voice intones; chuckling.

I turn to see Debra Morgan standing to my side, gazing at the painting as well. Harry stands off to the side, conversing quietly with my mother:

"It's... beautiful, in it's own way," I shrug, smiling at the tall woman.

"I wouldn't know," Deb snorts, looking slightly abashed, "I don't know the first fucking thing about art."

"And I do?" I question lightly.

"Well, how am I supposed to know? You we're the one who helped me with my Art History homework back in college."

"You mean, helped you cheat?" I drawl.

"Ha, ha, Dexter; you're a fucking comedian," she moves in closer and her voice drops to a whisper, "so you're dating Taggart the braggart, huh? How's that working out?"

"You want the truth?" I ask quietly.

"Preferably," she intones with a crooked grin.

"She's annoying," Deb laughs at that; it's not overly loud, just enough to get my attention, rather than everyone else.

"Well, I hear she's learned a few tricks while working with the detectives. She use any on you, yet?" The brunette waggles her eyebrows suggestively, her crooked grin, if anything, grows wider; my eyebrows raise in shock:

"I think this passes the realms of appropriate conversation in polite company," I deadpan before turning back to the painting. Deb just shakes her head, clearly enjoying the discomfort she _thinks_ she's caused me, and looks at the painting for a long time. It really is awe-inspiring, in a minimalist sort of way.

"You two have certainly been looking at this one for a while," Eliza's voice registers behind us, looking on the painting, "I know your sister painted this," she indicates the placard underneath that says: _Artist: Deidre Moser_, "but her picture of the prostitutes was much better. No offense, but this is just a bunch of splotches of paint. It's like a, like a-" she trails off, trying to find the right words.

"-Like a fingerpainting?" Deb supplies Eliza the answer, who freezes for a moment:

"Not exactly the words I was looking for," she shrugs in response, looking at me as if Deb had just slapped me, "but something of the like."

"Well," Deb retorts, she directs a thinly-veiled insult to the Vice Scientist, probably out of respect for Dee, "I think it's beautiful."

"Really?" Eliza questions, seemingly unaware of Deb's tone, "Different strokes, I guess-" she pauses to laugh, "-no pun intended."

Deb's response-sneer is veneered in a sickly sweet smile. Ah, the joys of watching woman squabble over the pettiest of reasons. Deb's been friends with Dee since the girl was born, and now she's ready to rip this woman's head off for simply stating her opinion. The thing is, Art's like a kaleidoscope, you can look in at the artist's intentions and see a million different meanings for a million different people, but people are often unaware that art is, at best, a fractured medium, and that things that maybe garbage can be beautiful; it all depends on the beholder. It's the reason why we have so many wars, and why people are so at loathe to depart from their ideals. But, hey, maybe it isn't a bad thing at all...

...it definitely leaves me with city stocked full of murderers.

"What do you think, Dex?" Eliza asks, looking at me and indicating the painting.

"I-" I stutter, who do I side with? I agree with Deb, but a painting's not a good enough reason to get my squeeze angry at me. Fortunately, my mother, having heard the conversation, takes pity on my poor soul and ushers Eliza away:

"Come on, Ms. Taggart, there are a few people I'd like you to meet," Eliza nods, giving me a demure smile:

"We'll talk later, won't we, Dex?"

"Uh, sure!" I call back, watching my mother drag the woman away with a mixture of relief and awe:

"So, what _do _you think about it?" Deb asks, looking seriously at me.

"It's art. It's beautiful," I reply, gazing upon those magnificent bloody splotches on the the inky canvas.

"It is, isn't it?" Deb asks, smiling without any real reason that I can identify. I remain silent, as we look upon this kaleidoscope of life for a few moments longer.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe you bought it," Eliza grins, eating a little bit of the Flan we're sharing. She's referring to the Jackson Pollock my sister did. I shrug looking back at the brunette:<p>

"Well, Dee's my baby sister, I'd do a lot more than buy a painting for her," I reply, taking a bite and forcing myself to swallow it down. For some reason, I haven't felt hungry for the past few weeks, sometimes I want to retch after I eat.

"Cute," Eliza quips, spooning a bit of the Spanish dessert into my mouth, "Dexter Moser, the big Homicide hotshot's got a soft spot for his baby sister. Heartwarming, really!"

I chuckle, her particular brand of sarcastic humor really rubs off on me well, surprisingly. I suddenly feel a slight pain in my chest, and find myself letting out a few clearing coughs and wiping my mouth:

"You're looking really pale lately, Dex," Eliza says quietly, looking genuinely worried at my discomfort, "are you sure you're alright?"

"Just a bug, or something," I answer, "nothing a few days rest can't fix."

"Maybe I shouldn't be feeding you food, then," she snarks in good humor.

"Why not? We could be sick together," I reply suavely.

"Oh, and share a bed, and watch old romantic comedies?" She asks, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Hey, I'm not the one who suggested it," I raise up my hands, 'charming Dex' is in rare form tonight.

"Oh, you tease!" She slaps at my shoulder playfully before taking a sip from her wine, "but it does sound like an idea," she licks her lips suggestively. Crap. I hope she doesn't actually go for the bait.

"But you need to be at work, from what I hear, Vice needs you bad. Don't wanna take you away from them," I wink.

"Vice," she sighs, "what a department!"

"Hey, Homicide's got its fair share of nuts, too. You meet Masuka?" I ask.

"Yeah. I have. Can't say it was much of a pleasure," she intones, her glossy lips upturn into a pretty little smile, "and you guys have got Morgan's father as Lieutenant, right?"

"Yep," I respond brightly.

"He as much of a hardass as they say he is?" She asks interestedly.

"Nah, he's a big softie," I deny with a grin.

"Hey," she starts, "what is it between you and Morgan, anyways?"

"Huh?"

"You two are always hanging out, talking about stuff, you even help her on cases, don't you?" I nod, waiting for her to continue: "You two ever..."

"Uh, no," I cut her off quickly, why do people keep asking me these kinds of questions? "I grew up across the street from her, she's like a sister to me."

"Is that all?" She questions playfully, "a lot of people say that you two aren't exactly platonic."

"Well, a lot of people don't know what they're talking about. Hence the reason we're wining and dining," I respond truthfully. Eliza seems to like the truth, so I'll lay it out for her.

"So you're wining and dining me now?" She cocks her head to the side and puts her index finger to her lips in a mock-thinking pose, "well, I find truthfulness to be an endearing quality in men."

"Middle name's honesty," I lie, grinning at the subtext. Eliza stifles a giggle:

"You _are_ a tease, Dexter Moser," she exclaims, I smile and shrug in response.

* * *

><p>I don't know why we're here, but we are. Usually sex never enters the equation for me, women seem to realize how hollow I am once they have sex with me, and then I have to start all over again, so I like to distance myself from sex. Yet here Eliza and I are, in my apartment, completely alone. Brian and Rita are at her house, so the neighbor's home is unoccupied as well:<p>

"Nice little place you've got here, Moser," she spins, taking in the sight of my apartment.

"It's good for me," I shrug, "great location, too," I add, taking a seat on my couch. Eliza looks around at the apartment for a moment before her frost-colored eyes settle on me. She takes a few breaths and sighs:

"You look sick, Dex," she says quietly, "you're working too hard."

"Working too hard?" I snort, "there hasn't been a decent case since the Dahlia murders and I'm not even on that case."

I'm taken by surprise as she closes the distance between us, cupping my cheek as she kneels onto the couch, straddling my legs. The brunette gives me a wistful stare; obviously she's enjoying this. Eliza straightens out my shirt, smoothing it with her small hands, running up and down my chest and leans in close to my ear:

"But fuck if you aren't sexy," she whispers out breathily, nibbling on the lobe of my right ear.

I have to stop this somehow, but how can I do it without making her suspicious? Eliza cuts off my musings with a sudden kiss; her lips are soft, and her eyes are entrancing. She breaks off after a few seconds with a little lopsided smile, watching my eyes with her own pretty blues, before she dives in for seconds. This time, she closes her eyes, apparently its something people like to do, so I close mine as well.

I need to think, how do I get out of this one? I'm running out of time, she's unbuttoning my dress shirt. Before long, I can feel the cold air of my apartment hitting my bare chest, but Eliza abruptly stops. I open my eyes, dazed; she's looking down at the scars-three on the chest from stab wounds in Edinburgh, a long spindly gash from Bosnia, two on the sides from bullets in Slovakia, and countless others from the hell that was Vladivostok-could it be that my body saves me where my mind has lost all cogent thought?

"Jesus, Dexter, were you a bad sushi chef, or something?" She questions, genuinely surprised at the sheer amount of scar tissue on my abdomen.

"Something like that," I reply softly. I can say whatever I want about Eliza, but she's exceptionally aware of other people's feelings and innately understands that this a sort of topic I wouldn't like to discuss. Instead, she does something all the more stranger.

She leans down and licks the long, sideways scar I received from a fight a long time ago, letting her tongue trail along it, slowly, as if her mouth were taking a leisurely stroll. It's a bit weird, but strangely arousing.

"What are you doing?" I ask, looking down at her in what I think is a confused manner.

"Sex is an art, Dexter," she raises a single eyebrow, "you make it up as you go along."

"Sex is an art?" I repeat; I think she notices the tinge of skepticism in my voice, and Eliza looks up to me:

"A cynic? I love cynics," she breathes out, lowering herself to my waist, "let me show you."

I try to pull away, but the quiet, grating sounds of my zipper being sufficiently unzipped leaves me motionless. I haven't got a shot in hell, so I just let my head loll back and groan a bit as Eliza does strange and wondrous 'artsy' things to me.

* * *

><p>A few hacking coughs erupt from my chest; they're really painful this time. Maybe I <em>will <em>have to go see a doctor soon, there's no way this can be good. I find myself kneeling on my bathroom floor, feeling sore all over and my lungs have suddenly decided to do mortal battle with some sort of pathogen and my sanity.

Eliza sleeps in my room, she passed out a few hours ago after we made 'sex an art'; I, on the other hand, couldn't get much sleep. I don't know why, sudden-onset insomnia, maybe. But then the coughing started and I rushed to the bathroom to take care of the fit so Eliza wouldn't wake.

I stand up after the fit passes, and approach my sink slowly, turn on the tap and watch water spew out from it. I cup my hands and run it under the water, watching it fill up, then I bring it to my mouth. I take a few swishes and spit it out, noting how the water comes out tinged red. I stare at the muddled water as it goes down the drain.

What's wrong with me?

* * *

><p>I awake quickly to the loud noise of my cell phone ring tone. I shift to my side, moving Eliza's arm off my waist; she sleeps next to me on her stomach, utterly passed out. Either I performed that well or was just <em>that<em> boring. I look at the phone, it's Deb:

"Moser," I say groggily into the receiver.

"Jesus, Dex, I know you've got today off, but...you've gotta see this," Deb's excited voice registers on the other side of the line. Eliza shifts slightly in bed, and opens her eyes, before asking groggily:

"Who's that, Dex?" Her words comes out as a nearly-drunken slur.

"Is that Eliza Taggart's voice I hear?" Deb asks, sounding dangerously like she's teasing, "Dex, you fucking dog!"

"Yeah, yeah," I say to her and mouth 'It's Deb,' to Eliza, who nods and kisses my shoulder and remains quiet, "what's up?"

"Fuck me, we got a dead hooker," Deb replies.

"Since when is that a new thing in Miami?" I question.

"But it's the way he killed her, Dex," Deb explains, "LaGuerta won't hear me out on this but I fucking think this is our Dahlia guy."

"Does the M.O. match?" I ask.

"Not exactly, but I can tell, it's done in the same fucked-up way that only the same fucked-up mind could come up with. I can just feel it in my gut that this is the same guy," Deb's always liked to talk about that-the gut feeling. I don't know what it means, but it's something she equates with being a good cop because Harry told her she needed it to ever be a 'good' cop. I don't have gut feelings; I don't want to have gut feelings. Sound rationality, proving beyond a doubt that someone deserves my knife is what helps me sleep at night, not fanciful notions about a police 'sixth sense'.

"So, why are you asking me? I'm not even on the case," I try to disengage from the conversation.

"Because, Dex, you understand this crazy shit. You get those hunches...so, I'm thinking, if I got a hunch from this, you probably will, too, am I right?" She asks, sensing my disinterest over the phone, "oh, come on, Dex!" My little neighbor whines, "I'll fucking buy you lunch if you want. So, pretty please?"

"You've got yourself a deal, Ms. Morgan," I grin, maybe this is worth checking out. I can come right home afterwards, anyways, right?

"Bastard," she snorts, "you make more money than me and you're making me pay?"

"Hey," I deflect good-naturedly, "you offered."

"Fuck off, asshole," she retorts, but I can tell she's probably smiling as she curses me.

"Fucking off," I reply, before ending the call.

"What's this?" Eliza asks, holding up the old kaleidoscope.

"It's a gift," I reply, watching her look through the eyehole, she'll only see cracked colors, though.

"It's broken," she responds after a moment of meditation.

"Yeah, I know it is," I reply, getting out of bed, "it broke a few years back."

"And you still keep it?" She questions.

"Well, it _was _a gift," I reply, "do you want to take a shower first?" I ask, she shakes her head:

"Your house, you get first shower," I shrug and nod, shuffling towards the bathroom to take a shower; I smell like a mixture of sex and sweat, and my mouth tastes like blood from the coughing fit during the night. Eliza walks out of my room and I hear the television turn on as I shut the bathroom door behind me.

The shower is nice, brushing my teeth leaves me feeling refreshed, like I haven't been ravaged by some unnamed illness for the past few weeks. I finish quickly, walking out with a towel around my neck while Eliza watches the news, interested.

I slink by her and start making breakfast for two, turning on the stove and look down at the electric heater as the white lines turn a molten red to show that it's on. I don't know why, but I have an irresistible urge to touch that molten line, even though I know it will burn my finger.

But I do it anyways, touching it for the slightest moment before snatching it back, a nice little welt left on my right index finger to remember it by. I stare at the burned finger, smiling slightly without knowing why, and only one thought pervades my mind:

Everything burns.

* * *

><p>Miami has a way of making murder seem so illogically mundane. There are beheadings, cases of dismemberment, violent rape, drug shootings, you name it; it all eventually looks the same to you. So mundane, without meaning or sense-just murder for the sake of murder. It's like people have forgotten what murder really is and turn it into a half-hearted game of 'Finding Ted Bundy 2'. But it's wrong, what they say, that passion: the nonsensical, illogical feelings they feel that leads up to the release of blood, that proves they're murderers. They have a reason. I can't say I have a reason for why I do what I do, but, at least, I can go home at night and feel like I haven't done anything completely wrong. I'm just a killer, I don't murder, I don't even hate or have a real reason to kill who I do-there's no moral or legal reason why I do it, I just <em>do<em>.

These people are murderers, and you think that's awful, but I sometimes think it's better that the world is full of murderers rather than killers like me. These men have an endgame, a reason as to why they do what they do; I don't. If you ask me, it's the men who have no purpose or endgame; those want to see the world collapse that are truly terrifying. I duck under the ticker tape of blocking off the crime scene, only to be stopped by a cop:

"Who the fuck are you?" Asks a County Sheriff Officer as I pass underneath the yellow ticker tape.

"Detective Moser, Miami Metro Homicide," I reply casually, showing him my badge. The Officer nods and lets me continue until I hear a familiar voice call for me:

"Dex, over here!" I search for the source of the voice, finally settling on the tall, lanky figure of Debra Morgan in hotpants and a tank-top, waving at me from the doorway to a motel room. I raise my eyebrows and engage in the slightest nod of my head, indicating I've seen her, and walk over to the walking Playboy advertisement.

"You're looking nice today," I say gentlemanly; of course, Deb sees the sarcasm laced into it and gives me a narrow look:

"Fuck you, Dexter," she says, not really intending to harm, setting down her hooker purse on the dresser.

"So, this is where Johns come to get down and dirty with Debra Morgan," I sigh wistfully, looking around the room before looking back at her with a completely serious face, "I expected more chains."

Deb snorts:

"Cherri is a very sweet gal, sugar," she jokes in response, "she knows she's the last time any of her clients will ever see a whore, so she tries extra hard to treat her Johns right."

"Cherri?" I ask derisively, "you don't look like a Cherri. Your's must've been popped _years_ ago," I grin and duck as a rolled up T-shirt comes flying my way:

"Don't make me hurt you, asshole," she says dangerously.

"Alright, alright," I reply while moving towards the bed and taking a seat on its edge.

"Could you," Deb starts off in a overly-sweet voice, reapplying makeup to her face, "take a look at the body for me?"

"Why can't you yourself?" I ask.

"Because LaGuerta's got my interviewing hookers who haven't seen anything, and if even they have, they sure as motherfuck aren't going to tell_ me_," Deb snarls, opening a cigarette pack, and slapping it against her palm a few times until one of the small tar-cylinders come out.

"You shouldn't smoke," I warn, "it'll mess you up."

"Fuck off, Dex, I'll do what I want," she dismisses my protest with the wave of a hand; a lighter seemingly magically appears in her palm as she lights the cigarette.

"Fine," I relent, "just don't complain when you've got lung cancer."

We're silent for a moment as she takes a drag:

"What's your gut telling you?" She asks after a minute.

Nothing.

"Nothing yet, I have to see the body first," I reply, "the stuff I do for you...this lunch had better be worth it."

"Thanks, Dex," she grins, knowing I won't bow out of my promise as I open the door and close it behind me, not particularly eager to be out in the muggy Miami air. I walk in the general direction of the crime scene, which I assume is where all the officers are crowding at. Suddenly the crowd parts, opening up like the Red Sea for the Israelites, but instead of thousands of those who deserted Goshen, there's only the shiny, bald head of Detective James Doakes emerging from the sea of faces, who seems to be making a beeline for me.

"You ain't got no call to be here, Moser," he exclaims angrily, his strides are purposeful. Is this really a man who was trained in Spec-Ops? He doesn't know how to handle his emotions _at all_.

"I was in the neighborhood, thought I might stop to take a look," I reply amiably as he stops in front of me, no one really seems to be paying attention, aside from a few prostitutes, LaGuerta, and Harry.

"Cut the cute shit, Dexter," Harry reproaches sternly, looking at us like two petulant children, "I gave you the day off, so why are you here? You should be getting rest, you know that."

"Don't blame me," I raise my arms up as if to say that I'm not at fault, "_Cherri _called me."

Harry instantly shuts up and motions me over to him. I give Doakes an apologetic look; I am _trying_ to act nice, it's not my fault he can't reciprocate. Doakes gives me a dark glare and shakes his head, following me to the Lieutenant:

"Dexter, get _Cherri_ out here," he orders.

"Dressed like that?" I question.

"Tell her to change," Harry answers exasperatedly, I nod, turning back to the motel where Deb's room is.

Once I reach the door, I knock, hearing a sultry rendition of Deb's voice come out of the room:

"Yeah, sugar?" She asks.

"Deb, get changed," I say, not in the mood for games with my 'best friend', "Harry wants to talk to you."

"Fuck," she mutters loud enough to be heard through the door, "dad's gonna tear me a new one."

"I doubt it," I reassure her, "he likes working with you, you know?"

"Yeah, I'll bet," she snorts derisively, before the door opens, revealing Deb in full police garb, "take me to your leader," she jokes hollowly, letting me lead her through the crowd to her father, who looks upon her impassively. He stares at us for a moment, before motioning for Deb off to the side of the motel. I wait awkwardly in the crowd until Harry turns back and points at me:

"You too, Moser," he calls, and I comply. In a flash, both Deb and I are standing in front of a disappointed-looking Harry, who shifts glances from Deb, who stares at her shoes, fidgeting slightly, to me, who stares him straight in the eyes.

"Debra," he starts, deliberately quiet, so not as to attract attention to us, "care to tell me why you called Dexter in on his off day?"

"Hey, it's alright, Lieutenant, I can lea-" I try to explain, but Harry cuts me off:

"I wasn't talking to you, Detective," he growls soberly, before turning back to Deb, awaiting an answer patiently:

"I-I-" Deb stutters, looking over at me, pleading with her eyes for me to save her somehow.

"She wanted me to verify a theory she has," I answer for her.

"Still not talking to you, Moser," Harry's voice conveys more annoyance; folding his arms, he never breaks eye contact with Deb, who's trying to avoid his severe gaze.

"No one will listen to me," Deb begins, her voice small, "I have a theory and you and LaGuerta shove me back into my room like a dirty, backalley whore."

"So you ring up Dexter, Deb, he hasn't been feeling well for the past few days," Harry reprimands; I feel that it's the chivalrous thing to do to step in and defend my friend's metaphorical honor:

"Hey, lay off her, I'm fine," of course, my cursed body decides to betray me at that exact moment, as I feel another coughing fit coming over me; it takes all my self-restraint to keep any more than one cough from escaping my mouth.

"Yeah, sure," Harry retorts, "that's what's with the coughing, weight loss, and bloodshot eyes, right? Can't fool me, Dex."

"I said I'm fine," I find myself growling as well, "I'm a big boy, I could choose for myself whether I wanted to come to the crime scene or not. Don't blame Deb."

"I'm not, I'm just questioning my daughter's judgment," Deb remains silent through all this, and for a moment, I feel like Harry and I are fighting for a daughter we've both laid claim to, he pushes me off a few feet from Deb so she can't hear; leans in close, dropping his voice to a whisper "and there's a reason why_ I'm_ her father, not you. Don't try to do me any favors."

"You're definitely not acting like it," I growl back and give Deb a reassuring smile, but she refuses to look up. The woman needs some self-esteem, and Harry's not helping, "look, Harry, the territorial pissing may have worked on me or a son, if you had one," I say, hardly believing that I, a serial killer, could know more about parenting than my mentor, who stares at me level. People are starting to notice; I have to end this soon, so I drop my voice to a whisper, "but Deb's low on self-esteem. You could try reassuring her, rather than cutting her down."

Harry backs off of me; he ponders my words for a moment, before turning and walking back to Deb:

"What's your theory?" He asks, sighing.

"This is the Dahlia Killer, I just want to see if this hunch goes anywhere. Dexter's got experience with Forensics, and it's on his time, I just want to see if I can confirm it," Deb says it so quickly that it seems like a long, nonsensical sentence made up of mashed-together words.

Harry looks at me, rubbing his forehead exasperatedly:

"And you're fine with this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I joke, "I'm an insomniac with _no_ social life."

Harry looks conflicted, before nodding:

"Deb, I'll let you in on the Homicide Briefings for this Case; you're with Dexter on this one. But Dex, I still expect you to do your real job with Detective Batista, alright?"

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant," I salute him cheerily. I turn to Deb and smile, "see, that wasn't so bad?"

She looks up, a mixture of shocked and dazed, but most of all, happy. Seeing her grin like that is nice, like how I think a father must feel when they do something exceptionally courageous for their family.

"Thank you, Dex," she says gratefully, "I don't know how I'd..."

"Don't mention it," I cut her off softly, "let's go see that body."

* * *

><p>"This is some fucked-up shit, <em>socio<em>," Batista mutters, looking down at the corpse, which is covered by a white sheet, "not for the faint of heart."

"I've definitely seen worse, I'll bet," I reply, smirking. Batista shakes his head:

"I wasn't talking to you, brother," he indicates Debra, who looks at the crime scene, fascinated, like a student at a master's workshop, "I was talking to the pretty one."

"I'm not pretty?" I ask incredulously, feigning a hurt expression, Batista just grins.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I think you're pretty, Dex," Masuka's voice comes from behind me as he pushes past the Morgan and I, but he stops abruptly once he sees Deb, turning to her, "Vince Masuka, Forensic Investigator."

"Debra Morgan," she replies, "your bosses' daughter." Masuka clams up, before turning awkwardly to Batista:

"Alright, let's unwrap this bitch!" He calls out magnanimously; Deb gives me an incredulous look while Batista and I give her an apologetic one. Deb's got a soft spot for the 'streetlight people', so it isn't hard to see that she'd be a little offended by Masuka's blatant disregard for human life. Not that I agree with her, a bag of flesh is a bag of flesh. Souls complicate things, better to think of the dead as dead, and the slide as still alive.

"Vince, watch your mouth," I reprimand for her.

"Jesus, Detective Buzzkill, would you like to readjust your tampon?" Masuka asks, grinning.

"Just open the fucking bag, _burro_," Batista snorts as Masuka bends to his knees:

"Dex, you have Forensics experience, right?" I nod at the short man's question, "wanna help me out on this one? Just take a few pictures, analyze the wound?"

"And the Blood Spatter?"

"Yeah, we're kind of lacking right now," Vince sighs, before folding his hands in a caricature of a girl's high school yearbook photo, "be a bro?"

"Fine," I reply, "hand me that camera."

"Well, lets see what's behind sheet number one," Masuka says, lifting it off.

For a moment after seeing the body, I'm rooted to the spot. My eyes go wide; I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. The 'hooker' is no more than fifteen, if I can estimate her age by her body; what's ghastly about the scene, however, is not her age, but the fact that she's been beheaded, and her arms have been cut off.

In her lap, her severed head sits over her hands, cradling the head like one would a newborn baby. She was crying when she died.

"Have we got an I.D.?" I ask, trying to shake away the million different thoughts burgeoning in my head. Deb winces, looking at the grotesque picture laid out for us by the killer.

"No, nothing yet, once we get her back to the lab, we'll be able to find out for sure," Masuka replies.

"I think this is a new girl, none of the others seem to recognize her," Deb says, probably pushing past her disgust.

"The purse is filled with condoms, and her attire seems to be that of a working girls," says LaGuerta from behind Batista, but I'm already thousands of miles away, in the foothills of Bosnia.

* * *

><p><em>February 22, 1995<em>

A warm jacket is around my shoulders, I carry an AK, trusty little weapons, they are. I've been staying in a small, remote hamlet near the center of the country for nearly seven months now. I've become accustomed to the language, and now have begun to learn Serbian, which is a useful language to know in early 1995. This is a dangerous part of the world, I suppose, but we've been kept relatively safe.

A band of men and I are hunting together; two are U.N. Peacekeepers assigned to this location, one is an American like me, and four others are Bosnian. They are good people, driven to moral ambiguity by the very nature of this war, but good people nonetheless. We carry three wild pigs on our backs. That should be more than enough to feed the entire village, which totals about forty in all.

The icy tuft of snow cascades down upon me, stinging my face. Being from Miami, it took me some time to adjust to the cold Eastern European winter, but I've come to enjoy it. Sometimes the sharp pain you feel from breathing in such frigid air serves as a reminder that you're alive, despite all the mayhem around you, and that's valuable.

People in America can go to sleep without fear. When has Brian or Debra ever gone to sleep with a perennial sense of dread? When did _I _ever go to sleep fearing I wouldn't wake up? Never. People in the civilized world lose all semblance of self because they have no _fear_. That these people, constantly in a state of war, can recognize that makes them so much more valuable than the family I left behind, they shove dead people into boxes, I'll fight.

We sing an old Serbian folk song that the village men taught us months ago, laughing and joking in multiple languages to and from one another.

"_Hey, Kalashnikov,_" the other American, who has identified himself as 'Python' for the revolver he carries, starts in Serbian. He calls me Kalashnikov because of my AK, "_how's Natasha in bed?_"

The other men let out barking laughs; even the U.N. guys smile:

"_Very forceful, if you ask me,_" I grin, replying in Serbian, "_but quiet. She doesn't want to wake up Liza._"

Now both Python and I let out our own laughs. It's times like these that I forget how angry I am; how little the world makes sense, how unable I am to understand _who I am_ or _why I do what I do_, instead I just let myself be carried off in waves of camaraderie with men I'd have never known if I hadn't been brave enough, or stupid enough, to leave my little corner of South Florida.

"_Liza, what a beautiful little girl,_" one of the Village men says, "_sometimes I forget she is not yours._"

"_She's certainly controlling me like she _is _mine,_" I reply in jest, _"but, I love them because of it_."

My words come as a surprise to me, but all the men smile. Python looks up from his revolver, dusting some snow off it:

"Good for you," he says in English, "you're lucky. We're all looking for that special someone, looks like you found her."

* * *

><p><em>January 31, 2005<em>

_We're all looking for that special someone_, there's truth to that statement indeed.

"What did you say?" Deb asks, looking down at the bloodied body.

"I didn't say anything," I reply, looking confusedly at her.

"Yeah, you did, Dex," she replies, "didn't sound like English either."

"It's Serbian," I dismiss it, "I heard it a long time ago."

"Serbian? How the fuck do you know Serbian?" Deb asks, raising an eyebrow. She waits for me to answer, but I don't, so she sighs and continues, "Well, what does it mean?"

"Nothing," I exhale, "nothing at all."

* * *

><p><em>February 22, 1995<em>

My feet crunch through twigs and branches and melting snow stained a brilliant color wheel of shades of red. I can barely believe what I see. There are bodies everywhere, shot like dogs, left strewn in the snow outside their homes, like forgotten hunks of rotten meat. The Serbian men behind me let out a guttural roar, charging ahead with no concern for their well-being into the seemingly deserted village.

"_Stay back!_" Python calls angrily, but they do not heed his warning and run straight for their homes, to see if their wives and children are still alive, their frantic voices loud and hysterical.

We can't blame them, but we know better. The village probably isn't empty. Our suspicions are confirmed when we hear four shots ring out, and the frantic voices stop. McAllister, one of the U.N. Peacekeepers, tells us to use the houses as cover, and to not hesitate when we see an enemy combatant, but to shoot upon sight. Python and I take the left house; whilst McAllister and Downing take the right.

I keep the AK at the ready, holding the assault rifle carefully, firmly, like Harry taught me to once when we went to the Shooting Range. We approach from the sides, moving quickly from house to house, making sure no one sees us. Two of the men who rushed in before us lay collapsed and bloodied in the center of the village, next to the old well where all our water comes from. Two more hide behind a house close in front of us. One of them looks injured. They flag us over, but Python and I notice two soldiers in trackpants and poorly-made body armor stand guard over the village square, armed with handguns.

Python taps my shoulder as we make aim for the guards, on the other side of the village; I can make out the two forms of McAllister and Downing aiming at two other guards that we can't see from our vantage point. McAllister looks to me and makes a slight nod, at which moment all four of us exit cover and fire at the men guarding the square. Blood spurts from the wounds as they fall over, collapsing into the snow like all of their victims.

We rush over to the two injured men:

"_Are you alright?_" I ask in Serbian to the injured man, who appears to have never been in our hunting party, he nods, grabbing at his thigh.

"_It's nothing serious, I was shot in the leg. Nothing a little rest can't fix,_" He replies, putting pressure on the leg.

"_How many men are there, do you know?_" Python asks.

"_There are only four we saw, I don't think there are any more, it's a small village,_" the uninjured man replies, "_but our families..._" he trails off.

"_They only left four men,_" the injured man affirms, "_but, there was a larger party that killed everyone._"

Python sighs and shakes his head. Suddenly I remember something, and a wave of terror washes over me, as I get up.

"Hey, hey! Where're you going?" Python asks in English, his voice dead serious, all traces of jaunty whimsy gone.

"I have to find them," I can't think, I need to find..._them_.

"_They are gone, friend,_" the injured man tries to say, "_they are all gone!_"

I ignore him, rushing to McAllister and Downing, down the village square, having completely forgotten about personal safety. As I reach them, I turn the corner, running through the maze of small houses, down the path I've become so used to walking leisurely down upon.

"Hey, mate!" Downing calls, his Welsh accent does even seem funny to me anymore, sheer terror has replaced everything I feel, "where are you going?"

I ignore him, taking a left, a right, until I find a small house. I slow to a walk as time slows to a mind-numbing crawl in front of me. There is a little girl, no more than six years-old, her head and hands chopped off laid out tastefully in her lap, her body rests, propped up against the wall of the house. I walk over, slipping in a particularly muddy patch of snow and crawl to her, delicately holding the beheaded girl's shoulders. She was once so full of light, the most delightful girl I've ever had met, and her world ends with a chop to the neck.

It's horrifying.

On her knees is a cracked kaleidoscope. I bought it in Berlin, for the few brief days I spent there, and gave it to the little girl as a present four months ago. It's been broken, the men destroyed it. I grab at it, afraid that it, that it-I look inside it to see cracked and broken patterns of color and light.

It's been destroyed.

I hear footsteps behind me, but don't turn around. I know it's McAllister and Downing.

"Jesus, mate," Downing exhales queasily; I hear the distinct sound of retching as I stare at the body. I remember all the times when we played, when I taught her hide-and-seek, when I played a little bit of soccer with her...all of that is gone.

"Come on, Dex," McAllister says, he uses my real name, which solidifies the sheer gravity of the situation, "they'll be back, we've got to get the survivors out of here."

"Hold on," I say, getting up, pocketing the broken kaleidoscope.

"Dexter!" The U.N. Peacekeeper orders sternly, "if Liza is dead..."

I ignore him.

"That's something you don't want to see," he barks, "believe me when I say that," he finishes more softly. I stop, for a moment, looking back at the elder man, before I open the door and walk inside.

* * *

><p>"...Dexter," I've stopped paying attention, it's so...familiar. That kill. Could it really be coincidence?<p>

"Earth to Dexter!" I flinch as Deb waves her hand in front of my face:

"Huh? What?" I ask.

"Jesus, you went into a fucking trance or something there," Deb says, looking at the body.

"Yeah, like you were fucking making love to it, or something," Doakes sneers, having materialized nearby the body.

"Ah, Detective, always so chipper," I scowl; sometimes it's best to engage in Doakes's pointless hate, it makes me seem more like a normal person, but not enough to pique any more of the bastard's interest.

I swallow, heading to the body. There, another problem arises, alongside the strange smell it gives off, but I don't pay attention:

"There's no blood, Masuka," I say, looking down at the area where the head was cleaved off; it looks like a frozen piece of meat, actually.

"I know, this is...this is bizarre," Masuka intones in a sick sort of awe, scratching the back of his head in confusion, "it's like a slab of meat," he touches the body, "it's cold."

"So, what does that mean?" Deb asks, LaGuerta gives her a severe glare, apparently only Homicide Detectives are allowed to ask the questions.

"Cell crystallization," both Masuka and I say, looking at each other, "the body was stored at a subfreezing temperature before it was dropped off here."

"Someone froze the body?" Batista questions incredulously.

"No, well...yes," I stutter; I can't think straight, "could have been a morgue, or in a storage freezer, who knows? It has to have been someplace cold, that's for sure."

"Ugh, does anyone smell that?" Deb wrinkles her nose as she steps closer to the body, "it smells like-"

I pay attention to the smell, and immediately recognize the pungent and unique stench emanating from the corpse:

"Formaldehyde," I cringe, "an embalming agent, we use it all the time whenever we're preparing a body."

"Formaldehyde and no blood, sounds like a restoration gone awry," Masuka titters in that perverse way of his.

"No, it's too unique," I reply, "there's no way we could keep these bodies this cold out in the Miami sun, not without a refrigerated van to carry the bodies back and forth. See the knife wounds?" I point at the slashes at the corpse's wrists and legs, "definitely done pre-mortem, woman probably bled out."

"So?" Doakes growls menacingly.

"Meaning the murder definitely wasn't done here," I reply, "no blood, and the bodies still cold, and embalming agents. Sounds like we're looking for a crazed doctor or mortician."

"Something the Moser family has experience in?" Deb supplies, trying to be helpful. I nod.

"I'll ask my brother if he can give me any ideas on what it might mean. But we're not too friendly with other Funeral businesses, so I can't guarantee success on that," I stand up, as LaGuerta nods, and take off my gloves whilst strolling away.

No blood; what monster would think that's a good idea. No blood. It blows my mind. No, hot, messy, gooey blood; none at all. Just meat. It's clinical, precise, ordered. It makes no sense. Why would a killer go through all the trouble?

I have to go. I feel another coughing fit coming on and I need to be away from this.

"Where are you going, _socio_?" Batista asks.

Anywhere. Away. Somewhere but here. I can't think straight.

"Back to the station. I came here; I gave my professional advice, but it's still my day off, _amigo_," I reply casually, "the only reason I'm even gonna be at the station when you get back is because I want lunch."

I start coughing slightly as I stroll back to my car, feeling at least a little bit better that I don't have to see that body again.

"Are you leaving, Dex?" Harry calls, having just finished speaking to a throng of reporters who've gathered around the crime scene.

"No, I'm heading back to the station, I haven't got much else to do today, I'll stick around help."

Harry moves towards me:

"Would you," he starts casually, "would you watch Debra for me? Since you offered to be her partner on this one."

"I didn't offer anything," I smirk nonchalantly.

"Yeah, well, you did when you said for me to take it easy on her," he smiles, I nod, the smirk never leaves my face:

"Well, I said the truth."

"I never said you didn't, Dex," Harry replies, "I love Debra as much any father could. It's just...you know she can be a little overeager, right?"

"All too well," I quip, Harry snorts softly; a quiet exhale of air-a mixture of disbelieving and amuse, a trait he shares with his daughter:

"Yeah, she's always been a bit of a problem child, just don't get too exasperated with her. Remember what I've told you."

Harry taught me a lot when I was younger, some of them being the ability to fake emotions. He never understood how messed-up I really am, and I doubt he ever will, but he was the first of my teachers, and it's a big reason why he's almost as important as my _real _stepfather to me.

"Aye, aye, sir," I salute, grinning. Harry raises an amused eyebrow before clapping my back:

"See you at the station, Dex," he closes as LaGuerta calls him over to the crime scene and I make my way back to my car.

* * *

><p><em>February 27, 1995<em>

We are approaching the Russian Border. It didn't take long to get the paperwork in order, the country is accepting a limited amount of refugees from this war and we were lucky enough to be some of those limited amounts.

McAllister and Downing have stayed on in Bosnia, but Python, the two living villagers, and I have been in the back of a beaten old truck crawling to the border.

"I remember when you gave that to Liza," Python starts somberly, pointing at Liza's kaleidoscope, which I grip tightly in my right hand, "she was the happiest I've ever seen a child."

"Huh," I nearly choke, remembering when I gave the small wooden scope to the girl, "I found it in Berlin, it was cheap and looked nice. Liza loved it, so I gave it to her."

"Hah, she always was a problem child," he grins, remembering simpler times.

"Yeah," I say quietly, fondly, "she _was _a problem child. I wonder, how we can just accept something like this. He kills a little girl, I kill a grown man. What's the difference. Are we just supposed to accept that this happens?"

"It would be naïve to suggest otherwise," Python replies, "but I can't tell you why. We have to live with what we are every day. The man who did it will get what he deserves, it's simply karma."

"No, he won't. He'll go on living and a problem child ends up without her head. Karma doesn't exist."

"Then what does?" Python questions, trying to engage me in a conversation; this is the first time I've talked much since the attack.

"Chaos, fire, something of the like," I finish softly.

We remain silent, both of us are probably running through memories of the beautiful little girl and my suggestion about what is and isn't real in our minds until Python breaks the silence:

"What are you going to do once you get to Russia?" He asks jovially, trying to lighten the mood. He's trying to make me forget that both Natasha and Liza were the victims of an unnecessary war, even though I've by now accepted that death is a necessary part of an unnecessary war. I focus on a slight tear in the tattered cloth covering the truck over us. This part, cut open reveals an overcast Bosnian morning. It's cold.

"Probably go to Vladivostok," I reply at length, fingering Liza's blue and purple-striped kaleidoscope, "I came here trying to understand criminals. There are a lot of criminals in Vladivostok."

"Frauds, maybe," Python replies in jest, "and corporate jackasses, and petty thieves, but not the criminals you're looking for. They want money. All they want is fucking money. The men you want are the _real_ psychos. Like the ones-the ones..." he trails off.

"Back at the village?" I supply.

"Back at the village," he echoes, as we hit a pothole in the road, causing him to break off in the middle of speaking for a moment. Once we pass it, he continues on as if he hadn't been fazed by the jump, "they're the ones that just want to see the world collapse on itself. You want to understand what these fuckers are thinking? Find those guys, the ones who just...want to see everything burn."

* * *

><p>Robert Albright. I've known he was next for weeks. He's not a real criminal, as Python would have said, but he's a murderer, alright. He is an affluent lawyer, unmarried, in his early thirties; a good lawyer, but not so well known that he'd attract too much attention if he disappeared. Besides, he deserves whatever's coming for him. He was a mild-mannered lawyer who saw his neighbor's beautiful wife, Julie Gunn, and became covetous. When he coveted his neighbor's wife, he became obsessive. When he couldn't have her, he became a rapist and a murderer.<p>

And no one even thought to look at him. He was just the mild-mannered neighbor. It was no secret that Scott and Julie Gunn were on the verge of divorce, and in a moment of complete and total 'insanity', 'Scott' swatted at her head with an antique vase.

And went to jail for it.

I take a sip of coffee as I look over Mr. Albright's nearly squeaky clean record. It's wonderful to know that I can get these files from Camilla for no more than a donut or coffee. Other than a few speeding tickets, Albright's clean. I have my suspicions, but I need proof, and after lunch with Deb, my day's looking quite open.

"Hey, Dex," speak of the devil, I swivel my chair and shut the case file to see Debra Morgan walking my way, "you'll never believe what Masuka told me to tell you."

"And what's that?" I ask, as she stops short of my chair.

"Our hooker's not a fucking _hooker_," she grins.

"Not a hooker, what do you mean? She was at that hotel, and was dressed like a working girl," I reply, trying to rationalize why she would be found with rolls of condoms in her purse if she weren't a hooker.

"Masuka ran her dental records, apparently we already got it back."

"Already? Usually finding something like this takes the whole day rather than-what-five hours?" I ask, taking a look at my watch.

"Yeah, Masuka said he put it on rush order, or some bullshit," Deb remarks distractedly before moving to the topic she really wants to speak about, one she's much more interested in, "but get a load of this, Dex. Our hooker is Amy Guerrero, fucking Carlos Guerrero's niece!"

"Carlos Guerrero?" Batista asks, interest immediately piqued by the name, "his _niece_?"

"Uh... hate to break the party up," I start, "but who are you talking about?"

"Carlos Guerrero," Batista's face falls when I don't recognize the name, "he's probably one of the most powerful drug lords in Miami. No one can touch him, though, never gets his hands dirty-just reaps the benefits."

"The man with the plan, huh?" I ask. I hate the man who makes the plan and never gets his hands dirty. It's so weak, so cowardly.

"Yeah, something like that," Deb replies, "Jesus, how do you not know who he is? We've been trying to stick something to that fucker for years."

"I've practically been on Homicide since I started working, Deb," I reply nonchalantly, "if he doesn't get his hands dirty, and I don't stick my nose into the affairs of other departments, it wouldn't be surprising that I don't know about the guy."

"Whatever," Deb replies, "just wrap that huge brain of yours around that for a moment and then tell me what you think."

"Deb, you're a good cop, too, you know that?" I question; I can't understand for the life of me why she's so insecure, "you can think for yourself. Wrap _your_ huge brain around it and you might find you yourself can come up with some good ideas."

She needs some confidence, really. Instead, she grins at my compliment, and bends over slightly, grabbing at my wrists and pulling upwards:

"Come on, Dex," she calls, pulling me both out of restive state and my chair.

"Whoa, come on where?" I ask.

"You're the one who wanted lunch, dumbass," she snorts, still holding my left wrist. Batista smiles, nods, and walks towards Hale and Sodoquist, two other Homicide officers, leaving us alone.

"Oh. Right," I say, picking up the case file and my coffee with my free hand, whilst Deb drags me towards the elevator.

* * *

><p>"Dex, you need to go see a doctor about that cough," Deb orders sternly, like a mother admonishing her child, "you sound like a fucking geriatric with a case of bronchitis."<p>

"Deb, I'm a grown man, I don't need to see a doctor," I reply, beating my chest slightly, "it's just a little cough, it'll go by itself."

"Ah, whatever, Dex," she relents, "it's just...that cough sounds really bad."

"Don't worry about it, Miss Morgan," I chastise lightly, "just eat your crab."

We sit in silence for a moment before Deb speaks:

"So, any ideas on this guy?" Deb asks, sucking the meat out of a crab shell.

I love seafood. It reminds me of when Harry, my father, Ben, Brian, and I would go fishing for a cross-family dinner. Of course, Harry probably often felt lonesome, since Deb was a girl and was expected to help the women prepare the vegetables, so I'd always fish by him. For some reason, I always felt closer to Harry than I did Norman, even though I loved my father.

"It's not about ease of disposal anymore," I reply at length, staring at the crab leg she holds in her hands, watching interested, as Deb brings it back to her mouth and sucks out the rest of the meat. It never ceases to surprise me just animal we all are underneath our aura of civility. There are forks, knives, and spoons to eat with, but we all know the most enjoyable way to eat is with one's own hands. Maybe we'd even eat like dogs, face-first into our food, if we could.

"What do you mean?" Deb says, after chewing the meat and swallowing it. I find myself staring at a stray bit of crab juice on her chin. I point to it, and instead of wiping it away with a napkin, Deb licks it right up off her chin. Animals underneath, indeed.

"Prostitutes are easy to kill. They're out at night, they aren't around where many police officers would be, you know, the basic Police Academy stuff. But Amy Guerrero is the niece of a powerful drug lord, meaning it would be-" I almost finish the sentence, but Deb does it for me, excitement coming in spades out of her voice:

"much harder to get her out of sight!" Deb exclaims, grinning.

"And the fact she was made to look like a hooker lends more credence that this isn't a crime of opportunity," I continue, "somebody's trying to get into Guerrero's head."

"Murdering his niece would do that," Deb snorts whilst sucking on a lemon.

"But that also means it's _not_ the guy behind the Dahlia murders," I say, which disarms her, "that guy used them because it's easy to pick them up and easy to dispose of them. This guy has something else to tell us. It's more than just a need for him, and it's not about the fame, though this will garner him just that."

"Then what is it?" Deb asks, she's stopped chewing, interested in my train of thought.

"A message, or something. Possibly to the police, possibly to the mob itself."

"And what message is that?" She questions, leaning in close, a sure sign of Deb's continued interest.

"I don't know," I shake my head, shrugging. Deb leans back, sighing. I may say I don't know, but a small voice in my head tells me I already know the answer:

Everything can die. All people, places, art, anything. Everything burns.

Suddenly a burning feeling rises in my chest, I cough a few times into my napkin. It's a heaving cough, and it doesn't sound dry anymore. Deb cringes at the cough, I look into the napkin, and see blood forming into a distinct pattern around where my mouth was. I fold the napkin before Deb can see it.

The weight loss, the insomnia, and now the bloody coughing; maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to see the Doctor.

* * *

><p>I told Harry I'd be a little late to work today because I was going to see the doctor. He said to take as much time as I needed which is both a blessing and a curse; it's certainly not how one envisions spending your birthday: cooped up in a patient waiting room at 10 A.M.<p>

There is a man next to me whispering nonsensical jumbles of words and phrases to himself as he rocks back and forth; an elderly couple complaining rather loudly about why they have to disclose whether they've ever had a sexually transmitted disease on the patient form; and a father in front who seems more interested in the newest issue of 'Car and Driver' than his three children, the eldest of which, a girl around ten years old, stares at me and picks her nose quite graphically.

It's a miracle I don't murder them all.

I try to focus on the newscast on the TV at the far corner of the hospital waiting room, which is a little too low on volume to accurately hear, but it looks important, and keeps flashing to pictures of a Bank of America. Three other patients stand close to the TV. It must be interesting in some way, so I stand up and move towards them, anything is better than the people I'm stuck next to:

"What's that on the news?" I ask one of them, a balding Cuban man.

"Bank robbery. Big one. Some unlucky bastard lost about three million dollars," he replies distractedly, turning up the volume and folding his arms:

"It is believed the vault in question belongs to Mr. Carlos Guerrero, who is a millionaire entrepreneur," the news reporter states, giving us all pause. "Mr. Guerrero could not be reached for comment."

"No way," I begin, completely taken off guard.

"Entrepreneur," the balding Cuban man speaks again, albeit in a sarcastic manner, "that's what they call drug dealers these days?"

"Drug dealers?" I question, "he into drugs?"

"Very," the man snorts in response, "heard his niece got chopped up into bits yesterday, too. Maybe God's finally giving the _puto _some of his just desserts."

"Dexter Moser!" A nurse calls out from the doorway.

"Uh, I'm right here!" I reply, walking towards her

"Follow me," she says, smiling in that plastic way nurses do. She leads me down a hallway where other sick patients are, coughing and sneezing; it's a literal death trap. It was one of the reasons I stopped myself from going into Medicine, but a relatively low number on the list of reasons why I didn't.

She leads me into an examination room and tells me to wait there for the doctor.

* * *

><p>"So, Dexter, take a few deep breaths for me," Doctor Kleinman, my physician says jovially.<p>

I comply, taking a few deep breaths, as he asked me to do, watching as his smiling countenance droops into one of confusion. He stops, taking off his stethoscope for a moment and stares at me with a face of consternation:

"How long have you been smoking, Dexter?"

"Smoking?" I question, "I don't smoke."

Kleinman gives me a searching look:

"Do you have any aches, anything at all besides the constant coughing?" He questions, writing down something I can't see on his clipboard:

"Well, aside from blood in my coughs," I start, "I've lost a lot of weight, can't sleep well. And my body aches."

"Aches? Like how?" He queries, writing down more notes.

"I don't know, a deep aching from my bones," I reply, "I generally feel weak."

Kleinman gives me a worried look...

...And suddenly I find myself in an MRI machine, it buzzes around me, the soft _whirr whirr _of the machine, along with its constant banging makes it difficult to think. I now know that this isn't a simple cold, but I think I understood that a while ago once I started bleeding with every cough. What could it be that it's got my doctor so worried?

_Bang_!

Bone aches.

_Whirr, whirr, bang! Whirr._

I have a sneaking suspicion I know what it is; it doesn't take a genius to figure out why he's so worried. I can only hope I'm wrong.

_Bang! _

* * *

><p>"Dexter," an unfamiliar doctor starts sympathetically, my worst fears, however, have been confirmed because I'm because I'm being told the information by an Oncologist. He is in his early forties, married, I wager from the pictures of a pretty middle-aged blonde woman all over his desk and the gold band around his left ring finger; his once brown hair is starting to turn black, he has piercing blue eyes and a rigid face, as if cut from stone. His lips are thin, sallow, and yet manage to keep a friendly air and an easygoing smile about them. If I had been anyone else, I'd probably feel at ease with him.<p>

I sit back in my chair, and stare around the room, at the man's Medical License. Donald Kuhlmann. Huh. German descent. I could've been one of these White Coats, too, but in some ways, I'm glad I didn't:

"Mr. Moser, are you listening to me?" He questions, staring me dead in the eyes: ice blue meets swamp green.

"Leukemia," I respond hollowly, saying it myself makes seem all the more real, and all the more terrifying, "early stages; inoperable."

Kuhlmann smiles ruefully:

"Now I know this sounds really bad, Mr. Moser," he begins, his hands splayed outwards, gesturing in a soft, restrained way, "but what we've learned about Leukemia has skyrocketed in the last ten years, and it _is _the early stages of the disease, so it can be combated."

"So with chemotherapy, I can get better," the Doctor nods slightly, "if it works. If it doesn't..."

"That's a hazard, Mr. Moser, if Chemotherapy doesn't work, then it may be that the disease spreads and-"

"metastasizes. And then, I die, right?"

Kuhlmann looks at loathe to answer, but I reassure him:

"You don't have to lie to me," I begin, "I almost went to Med School, I know a little something about Cancer. And death doesn't scare me as much is it used to, or probably as much as it should." The Doctor looks taken aback at my frank response:

"That's a possibility," I flash him a deadpan look and he corrects himself, "probability. Chemo is the only real option at this point, as well as bone marrow transplants."

I look at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

"We need to start chemotherapy as soon as possible," he begins, "it will be painful, I won't lie to you, Dexter, but we can't risk it. I'll give you two days to tell your family, alright?" I stare it him, before slumping:

"Alright."

* * *

><p>Work is eventful what with the bank robbery, but I don't notice much, because I'm lost in my own thoughts. I've thought about dying many times before, especially during my stint in Vladivostok, and I've never been afraid of it. I like to say that if I died, I'd go to hell, but I don't believe in hell, so what fear do I have in dying? That I die without having done something meaningful? That's a fear, yes, but I find myself wishing, sometimes, that our lives were meaningless. That it all amounts to nothing except maybe fire.<p>

Maybe I'm just a cynic.

But I can't help but wonder if I'll leave anything behind for my family to remember me by, except for being that nasty little cancer boy who killed criminals.

I pass by Deb, who is sitting at Batista's desk, answering the phone; she has practically left Vice since Harry let her work with me on the Guerrero case.

"And I want it to say..." she shuts up as I pass by, "could you hold for a minute, please?" She turns to Batista's computer and starts typing something down; I pay very little attention as she returns to her phone call, instead fixating on Robert Albright's Case File.

I need something to set my world right. I need a kill. Something to prove that not everything in the world changes. I need..._order_.

_Bang!_

The noise of the MRI machine comes back to me, and I can hear it all around, getting louder. I become intensely aware of everything around me: the sweat gliding down the side of my face, Deb's exasperated sighs to whomever she's talking to on the phone...

_Whirr, whirr,_

Masuka trying to balance a pen on his lip, Harry ruminating over the Guerrero file in his office, LaGuerta and Batista quietly conversing in Spanish in the corner over a cup of coffee.

_Whirr, Bang, whirr, twang!_

And Doakes. He pretends to be working on a write-up, but I can feel his lidded gaze resting on me every other minute. Like he's seeking, probing, trying to find a crack in the model human being, something that will expose the darkness.

The noises of the machine get louder; rising to an octave above a deafening roar in my ears. I'm sick. In two ways now. Close to spiritual _and _physical death. I close my eyes and breathe in the chaos, maybe it isn't order I need, but a kill I can sink my talons into. Something dirty and grimy and so, so, _bloody_! A saw will do nicely. Oh, so _nicely_!

"Dex," I jump a little in my seat, turning to Deb,

"What's up, Deb?" I ask.

"You want to grab a drink after work?" She asks, "my treat?"

I don't really want to grab much of anything. Maybe go home and curl up in my bad and contemplate death a bit more, but a drink? Nah, not tonight.

"Tonight's a bad night," I cringe in what I assume is an apologetic manner.

"Well, I don't care," Deb orders, she rarely takes 'no' for an answer, but she seems a little _too_ emphatic for me, "you're coming with me."

I choose not to fight:

"Okay," I reply.

"So, Angel told me that you went to see the doctor today; how was that?"

"Good," I grunt, not wanting to speak of the awful meeting.

"So?" She questions exasperatedly, "what is it?"

"Just an infection," I snort, I'm taking medicine, I should be better in a few days, "just an infection," I repeat, looking down at the Case File in my hands. How many monsters will go free if I die? I look down at my hands, to see my knuckles turn white round the case file.

* * *

><p>"Just cranberry juice?" Deb asks, snorting, looking out the window of the car, "lightweight."<p>

"Somebody has to drive you home," I reply, "you aren't exactly the most restrained of drinkers. You want me to drop you off at your place first or do you want some coffee?"

"Coffee," she slurs, "my head fucking hurts, and I've got none at my place, can we stop by yours?"

"Alright," I relent, taking a left and making course for my apartment.

I help her out of the car once we reach my building; she swoons rather theatrically and staggers out of my grip.

"I'm-I'm...I'm fine," she says, grinning in the way drunks and murderers do as she hobbles up the stairs. I keep a rear guard to make sure she doesn't fall over. I follow her.

_Whirr, bang, bam, crash!_

The noises come back; they crescendo alongside the soft Atlantic waves moving to and fro against the dock, soft, but uncompromising. I find myself becoming intensely aware again, uncomfortable, like I'm being watched. I turn around for a moment to make sure there are no bogeymen behind me, waiting with their knives and tumors and bags of chemicals, like a meth lab on display. I watch Deb saunter in front of me, sweat on the nape of her pale, cream-white neck, dripping down, down, underneath her shirt.

And then I hear screams, women and children crying as their heads are cut off, placed upon their laps like a sick joke, blood spurting into beautiful little patterns upon the pale white snow, almost as pale as Deb's neck. People are dying there on Deb's neck. She needs someone to take them off, to get them off her snow-white skin.

She always was a _problem child_.

I could so easily wrap my arms around her throat, squeezing, squeezing until she gave in. I could so easily have her wake up on a table, plastic-wrapped and ready to be chopped up into nice, little, pale, snow-white Morgan pieces dropped off forever into the abyss of the Biscayne Bay. And I could just as easily wrap my arms around her throat, turning the drunk woman around and tell her I have cancer, and lick her lips, bite her shoulder, dance upon the bed in a pity party of colors from a broken kaleidoscope. Death or love, if Deb knew what I was thinking as she staggers to the door, she'd be mortified by one, and mortified and possibly flattered by the other. They're two polar opposites to her, but the same to me. It's primacy, natural love-murder or sex. I shake my head, breathing the salty ocean air.

Maybe I'm just as much of a problem child as she is.

"Dex," she whines drunkenly at my door, "you have the key."

I nod, walking calmly to the door, having forgotten the noises and ocean waves, having forgotten Deb's snow white neck and the blood-stained snow where another beautiful problem child fell into the dust of the earth, never laughing or looking through that cracked kaleidoscope again.

I open the door to a tidal wave of noise. People stand everywhere in my cramped apartment, my mother, my brothers, sister, friends, Harry. I turn back to Deb, pretending to be surprised, all traces of her drunkenness now gone. She's a good actor.

"Happy birthday?" She says, completely sober now.

"So you weren't drunk, were you?" I question.

"Please," she raises an eyebrow, dismissive, "it'd take more than a few shots to knock me out like that."

"Hey," starts Harry, moving from the crowd, "happy birthday. Your brother let us in, hope you don't mind."

"No," I reply, subconsciously wanting to make sure my precious box of dreams hasn't been found, "don't mind at all."

People file single line to congratulate me for turning thirty on the very same day I find out I have a potentially life-threatening illness. If it weren't me that was the subject of it, I'd find the irony delicious.

"Hey, brother, happy thirtieth!" Brian calls, waving me over to the living room where he, Ben, and Dee all stand and quietly converse with Batista and Masuka.

"Thanks, Brian," I smile as my mother comes towards me with a large cake, a big '30' candle in the center of the large sheetcake:

"Wow, is it yours, ma?" I ask, pointing at the cake. My mother makes the best cake in the world, it's one of the comforts I missed while outside the U.S.

"No, unfortunately," Laura laughs at the sudden crestfallen looks coming from all her children, "we've had so much work around the funeral home these days, so I didn't have a chance to make one of my own, so we had Deb order it. I'm sorry, baby," she coos whilst rubbing my shoulder soothingly.

"Alright!" Harry calls, ushering everybody, totaling twenty in all, out the door, "everybody outside, we'll be eating there!"

"Dexter, would you like to carry the cake?" My mother asks politely. I nod, taking it from her hands as Brian lights the candles with a match that seemed to materialize out of nowhere:

"For more dramatic effect as you walk to the tables," he grins. I smile back, looking down at the pretty flames dance on the wax of the candles for a moment. My mother leans in and kisses my cheek:

"My boys, all grown up," she says smiling, looking from me, to Brian, and then to Ben. I think for a moment, I should tell them what I discovered is eating away from the inside, but, better judgment wins through and I keep my mouth shut. They'll find out eventually. They'll all find out everything eventually. Because nothing's static. Nothing isn't changing. Everything can be seen through a multicolored kaleidoscope as it decomposes in the hands of problem children like Deb, Liza, even you and I. Everything, even lies and even the truth, decays.

Yep, everything burns.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>I know, I promised to get the WF chapter out before this one, but that chapter requires a lot of work to pull off well. So, here's a DotU chapter that I think delivers in its own way. We've had a bit of a set up for the antagonist, who will be making a slight appearance next chapter; a little bit of Dexter's backstory in this 'Universe' (we also see he's a bit nutso near the end of the chapter); as well as bringing out Carlos Guerrero, who will play an interesting role throughout the fic to Dexter, if I do say so myself. The chapter title was also changed, I had originally planned it to be named 'Kaleidoscope' but thought that 'Problem Child' fit the the theme of the chapter just as well, it also sounded more catchy, in my opinion. Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you can.

Geist.


	3. Suffer Well

**Summary: **Dexter attends a chemotherapy session; Doctor Kuhlmann puts him into an anonymous support group; Laura and Dee drag the males of the Moser family to church for family bonding. A schoolyard crime spells out emotional turmoil for Miami Metro and a possible playmate for Dexter.

**BIG WARNING:** This is a heavily cynical chapter. Probably the most cynical I've ever written. Last chapter deals with how everything changes and degrades to chaos. This chapter talks about the one thing that doesn't change: the worthlessness of human life. Read at your own risk.

* * *

><p><strong>Down on the Upside<strong>

* * *

><p><em>"It came from a small paragraph in a paper which means you kill yourself and you make a big old sacrifice and try to get your revenge. That all you're gonna end up with is a paragraph in a newspaper. Sixty-three degrees and cloudy in a suburban neighborhood. That's the beginning of the video and that's the same thing is that in the end, it does nothing…nothing changes. The world goes on and you're gone."<em>

-Eddie Vedder; _Rockline Interview on 'Jeremy'_, October 18, 1993.

* * *

><p><strong>'Suffer Well'<strong>

* * *

><p><em>77 degrees on a temperate Miami afternoon.<em>

I try to focus on the little black words of the newspaper I'm reading. Or, at least, trying to read. There is a man to my side bawling his eyes out. I suppose I should feel sorry for him. I'm relatively safe in terms of the possibility of death, but this man is certain he's going to die. I've heard the doctors speak of him, this Hartmann figure next to me, like a leper. No matter what they try, the cancer keeps spreading. It started his liver, but spread to his lungs, his lymph nodes, and it's started to spread to his brain.

They say he's terminal. Only a few weeks left to live, at most.

"What do I do now?" the man bawls out to his weary-looking wife, who tries to console him. I look from the tiny newspaper article I'd just been reading over to him, seeing an IV inserted into his arm, leading up to a feeding tube filled with some sort of amber liquid. Grimacing, I look down at my own arm, watching with morbid interest at the needle in it; the needle that leads to my own bag filled with amber liquid.

_The students of Delle High left their seventh-period classes to find a grisly sight in the boy's bathroom..._

"I don't know, honey, I don't know," Hartmann's wife lets out her own sob.

_A fellow classmate was found stabbed and slashed in the men's restroom of the 1700 hallway..._

"How do you do it?" Hartmann's voice registers in my ears. I shoot another sideways glance at the couple and find them staring at me. It must be strange for him, I guess, to see a young man being treated for leukemia, completely alone, and completely dry-eyed.

"Are you talking to me?" I question, lowering the newspaper.

"Yes."

"I don't know," I shrug, trying to sound empathetic, but I don't know if I'm faking it right, "I'm only a low-risk leukemia patient. I guess I hang on and suffer well."

"You're a brave man," Hartmann says, "braver than me."

I shrug and turn my eyes back to the newspaper:

_Lieutenant Harry Morgan of the Miami Metro Police Department has issued a statement on the murder case, stating all faculty and student will be questioned for more information..._

"Maybe," I say, looking from the small article of a school murder to the giant one next to it that takes up nearly the whole page and simply says:

_Heat Win Again!_

* * *

><p>"Dexter," Doctor Kuhlmann begins after I finish my session, "I want you to take a look into this support group." He holds out a small pamphlet.<p>

"Support group?" I ask intelligently, taking the pamphlet from his hands, feeling slightly like a meth addict being forced into a Narcotic's Anonymous Meeting. Well, it _is _anonymous. I nod, "I'll look into it."

"Good," Kuhlmann says, "It's not really a cancer support group. It's for everyone and anyone. So make sure to go there every few weeks at least. It's a real heart warmer, that place."

"Thanks," I say, holding up the pamphlet as I step up to leave the office.

* * *

><p>I still haven't told anyone that I'm a leukemia patient. I suppose it's for the best, as it would most certainly lead to me being forced off the job for a few months, at least, and, well... that guy who chopped up that Tony Montana wannabe's niece is so entertaining. It's like trying to disseminate a work of art, like trying to understand <em>Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, <em>except with a few more split arteries. And no hermaphrodites.

He's a cheeky one, this guy. He's trying to make us fear the very world we live in, but when you've seen the world, when you've experienced it the way I have, you can have no fear. And that's precisely why I'm so interested by him. What happens when you are only capable of causing, rather than feeling, fear?

The ball is in your court, Mister Mystery Murderer. Chop up another drug lord's dear sweet sister's little girl? Arrange her in a hooker's outfit? Shameful, maybe. But scary? No. You'll have to try much harder if you want to scare _every _little scamp in Miami Metro's fold. I snip people's dear little fingers off for fun, just to see the blood run... you better step up your game. I'm not going to live _forever_.

"Where the fuck you been?" Detective James Doakes, Miami Metro's resident holder of the 'Scary Black Man' award, questions me in that sweet, endearing way of his as I walk into the office with a box of doughnuts.

"Doughnut, Detective?" I ask, holding out a box of _Sadie's_ doughnuts. He looks at the fried sweets with an air of disinterest for a moment before giving me a soft look. It's like a lover's touch. Or a bloodhound catching the scent of a snake. In any case, it's quite apparent that he wants to tear me apart.

"Fuck you, Dexter," he snarls as I take a seat.

"Okay..." I sense hostility, "What do you need? Oh, I know," I start searching around my desk for a moment.

"What are you doing?" Doakes asks, looking down at me, confused.

"Looking for a sharpie," I reply nonchalantly, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Why?"

"Well, it's obvious you want my autograph, so I need to-"

"Shut the _fuck up_ and look at me!" he orders. I comply. "I need your analysis on this murder!"

"Woe betide my lack of knowledge, but _why _do you need me?" I question lightheartedly, looking through the pictures of a delightfully bloody axe-job in an apartment somewhere on the Bay Harbor Islands. "My God, this is only a few blocks from my apartment! There are kids there! I have to warn the _community_!" I raise my fists up in what I imagine is an affronted, determined manner. Doakes gives me a deadpan look and folds those arms of his... you know, those arms that look like they could snap an elephant's neck with breezy ease? I'd better not piss him off too much.

"What did I tell you? Shut the fuck up and listen to me," he gives me a cute little glare, like a child trying to tell the monster under his bed off; it nearly makes me want to chuckle, "I don't know why the fuck I need you."

"You don't," I quip, "Would you look at that? What a mess!" I point at the blood spatter on the wall, "It looks like something Georgia O'Keeffe would paint after an all-night crack binge."

"I wish I didn't," he mutters darkly, ignoring my obviously, rapturously funny joke. He just didn't get it, the Philistine, "but we ain't got a blood splatter analyst and you're the only fucker that's got experience with that shit, so give me your fucking analysis on these meth murders and we won't have to speak again."

"I highly doubt it, Sergeant," I reply, looking over the pictures, "God works in mysterious ways. And he doesn't like people being happy. That's no fun for him. Suffice to say, we're going to be speaking for a long, long time."

"The less, the better, psycho," he looks off to the side distractedly.

"Amen, brother," I reply. "This looks like a pretty simple axe-job at first glance, but, there obviously was a gun involved."

"I know that, anything else, _Ringo_?" Doakes sneers.

"Hey, I _love _Ringo!" I exclaim in what I hope is an offended manner, "He's my favorite Bea-"

"-_Shut the fuck up!" _Doakes voice drops low and dangerous.

"It's a big round that ripped through this guy," I return to the business at hand.

"What tells you that?" Doakes asks, suddenly serious. As much as we seem to hate each other, it's hard for anyone to make a case for us two not being a good team; I guess that's why no one ever questions our harassment games.

"Georgia O'Keeffe's cocaine habit tells me," I flip back to the picture of the smeared blood on the wall, "that kind of direct impact only occurs during a gunshot spray. Usually a very large caliber pistol can do that at close range. The wound can even look like a knife impact if you're not careful. I assume you'll see that once county gives us their report. Masuka can double check it for you, I think."

"So, I'm looking for a large-caliber handgun?"

"Possibly a Desert Eagle or an AutoMag, maybe even a military model, an M9 or a SOCOM," I say, "Something not very easy to come by. And, if this_ is_ a drug-related murder, it's probably a high-ranker in the cartel."

"What about the actual axe-murder?"

"Probably ritualized by a drug cartel as a way to warn others off their product," I point to the man on the bed, his head nearly cleaved down the middle. "That kill is methodical, while the other was quick. Masuka told me that Mister O'Keeffe was the first to expire, so the perp's got to keep the shot suppressed."

"And because there are no real known suppressor models for a Desert Eagle or AutoMag..." Doakes begins. Ah, he's a bright one.

"You're probably looking at a civilian model of a military weapon," I answer. "But I could be wrong. The suppressor can be custom-made. Wait till Masuka gets the ballistics report back," Doakes gives me a somber nod.

"Okay, Moser. Thanks for being absolutely fucking _useless_. Go back to doing whatever the fuck it is your crazy ass does," I guess that's as close to a thank you as I'll get.

"Love you, too!" I call to his retreating form. He waves a rather rude finger at me in response. I shrug and go back to work.

Ah, Mr. Albright, my lovely new playmate. I'll get proof. Don't you worry your slick, greasy little head. I see you. And I'm going to find you, and strangle you, and send you down to the bottom of the-

"Dexter, close your mouth, you look like an idiot," Harry orders good-naturedly from his office doorway. "I need you down at Delle High School for that McCready homicide. Angel's waiting for you there. I sent Debra down as well to watch you two work."

-ocean? Looks like you'll have to wait, Mr. Albright.

"On it, LT," I reply, closing the file and gathering my stuff.

* * *

><p>"God, I remember high-school. It was fucking awful," Deb looks warily at the tall high school building.<p>

"Why?" Batista asks, looking around, "Pretty girl like you must've had friends all over."

"Are you kidding?" Deb snorts, "A cop's daughter in a school full of potheads? Who'd want to be her friend? I think I was literally the most unpopular person in my grade. And it didn't help that this asshole-" she points at me, and I recoil as if I've been slapped, "-skipped two grades. I get to high school, and this fucker's already checking out for college."

"It's not my fault," I wave my hands in an apologetic manner. "Besides, we got to room together in college."

"Yeah, for one year," Deb retorts, "And then you dropped off the high-holy, goddamned _map_!"

"I... had to clear my mind. I wasn't far away. Just in a different city."

"And what city was that?" she asks, no doubt referencing the rather attractive scar tissue my stint in Vladivostok had left on me.

"Seattle?" I supply with a grin. Deb nods with a scowl, clearly unconvinced, "Oh come on, Debsie, stop being such a sourpuss."

For some reason, LaGuerta and Deb have chosen to not take too well to one another. LaGuerta probably hates Deb because she is Harry's daughter and has unlimited potential to rise through the ranks easily yet won't do it; and Deb probably hates the Sergeant because she feels that LaGuerta got the job by kissing up to Matthews and the Commissioner. Their feud is quite the fireworks show-when I'm not involved with them, at least-and it's only seemed to escalate since Harry and Matthews had taken the liberty of relieving Deb of her normal Vice duties. Deb calls the poor sergeant a 'dumb cunt' nearly daily, and LaGuerta always counters with some smart quip about tube-tops, fishnets, or nipple clamps, or something else that is meant to devastate darling Debra.

So far it's working. The dear sergeant's actions are making my little surrogate sister emulate the expressions of a rather mean-spirited fish. She been folding up her arms a lot lately, and dear Debbie decided to dress up and become the all-new Detective Debbie of the Barbie line-now with Kung-fu grip!-, and it looks like she went out and bought every designer suit she could think of. That, and she's quite fond of giving me glares that somehow remind me of a mix between the crazed mania of Jeffrey Dahmer and the downtrodden depression of a... say, a _George Costanza_. I think it's her trying to emulate Harry's piercing thousand-yard stares, but I find it more backwards and comical than anything. Such anger doesn't do her justice. She's much prettier with a smile on her face than a frown.

Of course, she's much more pretty than Dahmer, Costanza, or our even sourer Lieutenant, as she is one of the 'fairer sex', but her sudden transcendence into Harry-land is very unbecoming. I prefer 'Vice Debra Morgan' to 'In That Weird Limbo Between Vice and Homicide Officer Morgan'.

Vice Debra Morgan is sweet, awkward, and optimistic. Limbo Morgan is sour. Really, really sour. And she hits me a lot more. A lot, lot, mo-

"Ow!" I exclaim, rubbing my side after 'Limbo Morgan' elbows me there.

"Are you going in or what?" she interrogates dourly, pointing at the entrance of the school, where a few of the units wait.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," I say, following her to the door, Batista following in our wake.

* * *

><p>"Shit, shit, shit," a girl says frantically, Batista and I give her deadpan looks, "I never did anything. Nothing! No drugs, I swear!"<p>

"We're not here to talk about drugs, Ms. Mueller," I try to reassure the hysterical girl to no avail; Deb raises an eyebrow in barely concealed disgust at the mess of a teenager in front of us. The expression doesn't last for long before it turns back to the apathetic, sour face that I'm so used to seeing on Harry, rather than his daughter.

"The fuck you're not!" she screams out. Great, I now have a teenager on the verge of a psychological breakdown with Harry's daughter giving me the stink-eye the whole way.

"We're here to talk about Frank McCready, the boy who was killed in the bathroom on Friday?" Batista answers.

"Oh," she sighs, visibly relieved, "I don't know nothing about that. But I still haven't done any drugs!" she adds as an afterthought. I groan.

* * *

><p>"Frank was a Class-A dickhead. I don't know anything about it, but good riddance, I say. The fucker," a pimply boy states sourly.<p>

Look! I've found Deb's soul mate!

* * *

><p>"He was so cute, and such a great guy. He had such a great smile, and such a great voice, and such a great-" even Angel groans at this one.<p>

* * *

><p>"That dirty Frank was a <em>bad<em> mother-" the boy starts, grinning.

"Shut up!" I growl angrily, not even trying to humor the boy at this point.

* * *

><p>"This isn't working," Batista sighs, "Maybe we'll interview them separately, to save time and weed out the real suspects from the rest of the idiots that go here."<p>

"Yeah, I almost forgot how retarded high schoolers could be," Deb rubs her forehead, "What a headache."

And it's settled. We'd interview the students and faculty one-on-one.

* * *

><p>"What's your name?" I ask, looking disinterestedly at the long-haired boy. I already know his name, but I like to establish a rapport; having the prey tell me their information leaves me with a silent, sudden thrill that makes my darkness rouse from its mellow sleep long enough to let out a sharp cackle, a real peal of joy, before returning to his somber slumber.<p>

"Jeremy Downs," the oval-faced teenager says quietly. He looks away from me shyly. All practiced. I can tell. He is no more uncomfortable than I am. The question is, why?

"Grade?"

"Junior," he responds sullenly. I sit back in my chair, listening to the old wood give way and creak loudly as I shift my weight.

"Did you know Frank McCready well?"

"... No," he responds after a significant pause. He's lying to me. I hate it when people lie to me.

"Are you sure about that?" I ask, keeping a reassuring little smile on my face on the chance that I am making the child nervous, though I'm fairly sure I am not.

He stares at me straight in the eyes; four dead pools, two brown, two green, lock upon each other. The Dark Passenger is intrigued. He stands up from his usual lethargic cackling, from that cold, sad throne of his, and runs a dry tongue along his lips-he begs entrance, but I must remember that this is not what I was taught. Harry taught me self-control as a child, how to act. He knew I was... different, but to what extent, I hope he never finds out; and others taught me how to kill, how to fight, how to become more than just a man. But it's an idea I entertain for more than a passing moment, tearing into this boy right now, rip his jaw right out of his hideous face with my bare hands...

Damn it! I will _not_ have years worth of near-dogmatic patience and delayed gratification from the Dark Passenger's amphetamine high undone by a _boy_!

"Yes," he returns through gritted teeth. There is a flash of...something, in those eyes of his. The Dark Passenger whispers, begs, pleads, tempts me into biting into this forbidden fruit. I could easily track him down, and a flaying knife would be so apt to send this scum back to the very depths of hell-no doubt from where this absolute _menace_ to society has spawned from. He's a danger to the children; a danger to every Billy and Susie's brachial, carotid, and femoral arteries. He kills pure, innocent, little children, and children are our _future_!

Now if I were any kind of decent, patriotic American, I wouldn't let that happen, now would I?

He bends down to look at his shoes in what I assume is a meek manner, but it's a bad move because his all-too-short shirt raises up from his back, revealing-

"Do you like to hunt?" I ask suddenly, Mr. Downs gives me a confused look:

"What?" He asks.

"That knife. I can't see any other use for a combat knife aside from hunting. Or for if you find yourself in a fight with a classmate," I supply. Downs reaches back to the knife, seated in a leather strap, nestled into the back pocket of his tattered old jeans.

He wants to kill me. Oh, how delightful! Maybe I can finally use this service pistol of mine, but no, no, _no_; it would not be condoned to shoot a child in a school, even when the darkness inside him is lunging out with all its madness-struggling mightily, futilely, against the cruel hand fate had dealt it.

Just a violent, senseless murder. Just to see the blood run. Who's to say this _isn't_ what this boy deserves?

"Ah, ah, ah," I mock, shaking my finger to warn the boy off, "Now you may try to kill me, but I'm faster than you."

He is silent for a moment:

"You don't know that," he replies.

"I do," I say, nonchalant, "But even if you did manage to kill me, where's the sense in that? To see blood run for a few moments before you run out of the school, covered in my blood and into the arms of seven Unis?" Jeremy's face twitches. Clearly, he doesn't like this. Or maybe his monster doesn't.

Sorry Harry, I know it's messing with your Solve Rate, but this one's mine.

"Then what do you want me to do?" he asks quietly, angrily.

So, so, _mine_.

"Keep it to yourself," I lie, giving him false hope. "_Don't_ let it happen again. If you slip up..." I leave the threat hanging. He looks at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion. "Get out," I order before he can protest. And in a flash, the long-haired, oval-faced, table-mate in the making is out the door.

He's been fighting death every day, putting his life up to chance. But he's already lost. He just doesn't know it yet.

Just like all of us, I guess.

* * *

><p>Batista, Miss Morgan, and I recline in the Office HQ, eating Cuban takeout. He, Officer Sourpuss, and I established that there is likely no one that we've interviewed that fits the suspect profile. But, then again, they don't know about the extra parts of my session with Jeremy Downs. Of course, since there's no movement on the case, it's Friday, and it <em>is<em> our lunch hour, the three of us crowd around a small television that simply shows two men seated at a metal table, engaged in what I must say is a staring contest for the ages.

One of those men is, of course, my arch-nemesis, the Moriarty-or, wait, am I Moriarty? Never mind-to my Holmes, Detective James Doakes. The other is Carlos Guerrero, the man who found his niece in pieces. Ha. In pieces. Broken hearts and broken bones. I want to laugh, but deadly Debra will give me another one of her angry fish looks if I do, so I find myself as a third to their staring contest, seeing if I can keep up with the two (obviously talented) men. They must've been given the gift of steel eyes, or something.

Usually, either the Lieutenant or Sergeant question cases of such high priority, but, unfortunately for Sergeant LaGuerta, who is a glory hog of the highest caliber, she has been forced to help Harry with a meeting between the departments, overseen by the Commissioner. It's like our own little U.N., except less useless.

So, with the Lieutenant and Sergeant out of the picture, the duty falls to poor, poor Doakes. But, Guerrero, I've done my homework on him, and he's a man of 'respect'. And Doakes is...well-'Doakesian', as Angel might say-meaning he has trouble understanding sacred things such as privacy and respect. It's something Deb likes to call 'dickishness'.

He's gonna make a hash out of this one. Can we just save ourselves the pain and send Batista in there? He told me his father only wanted him to be an honest man. And, in my not-so-humble and usually correct opinion, an honest man is better than a 'dickish' man any day. If there was anyone who could question me when I'm inevitably brought into that room, I'd hope it's Angel. He wouldn't lie to me. Some part of me likes to think he might even appreciate what I do to the people who elude him.

Of course, I could be wrong. I've always been an astute judge of character when it comes to other monsters like me, but an honest man... I don't even know what to think about that sometimes.

Deb's phone rings. She takes a quick look at it before excusing herself and walking out of the office. Batista looks at me and shrugs as we turn our attention back to what must be a Guiness World Record for the longest staring contest ever held.

"Are they ever gonna say anything?" Batista asks.

"I think we're supposed to wait and see which one sets on fire first," I say back. More officers, Hal and Sodoquist join at our sides, watching as well.

"Well," Doakes suddenly asks, and all of us are taken aback, and here I thought Guerrero would be first to throw aside the monkeyish stupidity the two have been displaying for the past half-hour, "Have you got anything for me?"

"In terms of what?" Guerrero questions softly, a perfect yin to Doakes's yang. Doakes is violent, loud, gruff. He is refined, quiet, smooth. What an interesting match-up. This excited, butterfly in my stomach feeling I feel is what it must have felt like for normal people to watch Michael Jordan and Larry Bird to play a game against each other, "You gave me a question for which there is no answer, Detective."

I see a slight movement in Doakes's shoulder, as if he is coiled and ready to throw a quick jab right into the drug lord's face. The Dark Passenger always threatens, and pleads for a long, long time. This must be Doakes's own darkness threatening to give Mister Guerrero a very unfortunate stain on that prim and pristine suit he wears.

In the meantime, Deb returns to her seat behind Angel and I and rests her head, chin-first, on my shoulder and gives me a rather resplendent little smile.

"You're looking... chipper," I say. She tries to nod, but her head is still on my left shoulder, and all the force really does is move my body back and forth:

"Your mom wants to talk to you," the brunette replies.

"'Bout what?"

"Something about church," she shrugs, "She and Dee want you there."

"Why?"

"Dunno. But you and I are supposed to stop by for dinner; your mom says to bring Taggart, too."

"Eliza isn't available tonight," I say, sipping a bit of water.

"Okay, then just you and I. I think Brian and Rita are heading over there as well." I snort in response.

"Great. A family reunion," Deb stifles something that sounds dangerously close to a girlish giggle. Apparently she notices her mistake because suddenly, she's Limbo Morgan again, removing her head from my shoulder and making thin-lipped frowns at the television. I decide it's high time I look at the interview as well.

"I know what you are, Guerrero," Doakes sneers.

"And what might that be, _Officer_?" Guerrero asks, amused by and mocking the perpetually angry detective.

"He's going to fuck this up," I say to Batista, who looks surprised, "He doesn't know how to handle this guy. We need Harry to do this interview."

We watch Doakes accuse and rant for a good fifteen minutes, rooted to our chairs, watching in awe at the sheer majesty of these two beasts. Everything Doakes would throw, Guerrero just shrugs off like a particularly annoying fly. And if my five-minute back-and-forths with the Detective are anything to go by, the man was getting into poor James's head.

Eventually, the entire office is watching the battle of wills. Doakes is losing this one, for sure.

He throws pictures down, making it seem as though Guerrero had committed the murders himself, but, of course, the drug lord clams up then. There's only so much a man of respect can take before he stops paying attention to every accusation thrown at him.

"What the hell is Doakes doing there?" I hear the familiar, gruff voice of Harry Morgan, "Guerrero's just here for a questioning, not an interrogation!"

"He_ is_ questioning him," Debra snarks at her father, turning one of the patented 'Harry' scowls on its original owner. LaGuerta and Harry have obviously returned from the MMPD Security Council Meeting. If it ended this early, it obviously means China vetoed.

"Doing a damn good job of that," Harry snorts, his lip curling, "none of you thought to stop him?"

"He's got seniority, boss," I say nonchalantly, Harry sneers at me.

"Moser, come with me."

"Me?" I ask.

"Yes. You," Harry gives me a patronizing look, "We're going to relieve the Detective, he's running in circles anyways."

I shrug, and begin to stand up and follow him, when:

"Uh, Lieutenant, don't you think it should be you and I who head up the questioning?" LaGuerta asks intelligently, standing behind the Lieutenant.

"Nope, I'm pretty sure I meant what I said," Harry dismisses the Sergeant rather gruffly, before motioning for me to follow. I catch Deb's eyes for just a moment as she gives me a content little smile, which I can believe only comes from LaGuerta's political ass-kissing path to the top was being stymied by Harry's wise, sardonic speech.

I say, dear Morgan, you do sound like Churchill! Would you care to lay the Iron Curtain down on these Commie dogs again?

As if my prayers have been answered Harry takes one looks back at the crowd clustered around the television and speaks:

"Keep your eyes peeled. And don't do anything stupid," he gives me a pointed look during the latter part of his encore speech.

"Now why would I do that, Mr. Churchill?" Harry looks at me, nonplussed:

"What?"

"Nothing," I reply.

Maybe I should keep the voices inside my head exactly there: inside my head.

* * *

><p>"Doakes, move out," I say, "You've been relieved of duty."<p>

"What, and they _sent_ you in?" Doakes looks at me incredulously.

"I know, who'da thunk it?" I question cheerily, "But I think I can handle myself. All it takes is the right touch."

"Alright," Doakes sighs when he sees Harry in the doorway, leveling one of his famous stares at the Detective, "At least you might not fuck this up."

Ah, that must be evidence of his understated wit, what a truly poetic soul!

"Your confidence is inspiring, James," I deadpan.

"Just get the fuck out of my way, psycho," the elder man gives me his best scary look. I suppose I should quake in my sneakers, but I just haven't got the nerve. I fix Doakes a small, wry smile and make no move to get out of the Detective's way, who eventually chooses simply to barrel through me and shuts the door behind him with an audible slam as Harry sneaks in.

"A bit of a dick, isn't he?" Guerrero questions lightly. I double take; those were not the words I had expected to come out of his mouth.

"No," I say in sarcastic monotone, keeping a wary eye on Harry, "He's a model human being and a paragon of what a cop is. We should all strive to be more like him."

Guerrero chuckles:

"A sense of humor," he begins, "How refreshing in a cop. Usually you're all so..._boring_."

"Well, I do try," I snark, taking the seat Doakes had previously vacated. Harry levels that piercing stare on the Cuban man, who returns the glare with a bored stare:

"You're welcome to sit. My house is your house," he makes a magnanimous gesture at the second chair to my left, to which Harry responds with a negative, citing he'd rather stand, "Do you bite, or something?" He questions me, insinuating I'm the reason Harry has chosen to stand.

"No, it's because he's rheumatic. Can't sit without popping a few of those joints."

Harry now levels his glare at me. What? I'm a criminal. I _should_ be poking fun at you. In fact, I should be on the opposite side of the table!

Oh. Right. You don't know about that, do you?

"Sorry, Lieutenant," I apologize quickly, 'Significantly Cowed Dex' expression plastered on my normally neutral face.

"You can make fun of and remain respectful to your superiors at the same time," Guerrero begins, "Interesting combination, don't you think?"

"Oh, no, I'm quite boring," I smile, "You should see what I do Sunday nights."

On second thought, maybe you shouldn't. I'd rather not talk about the Marlins chances this year with you while chopping up Jeremy's body with a meat cleaver. It's nothing personal, I just take me-time seriously.

"I would love to, but business usually calls," he replies.

"Well, that's unfortunate, you wouldn't miss much anyways." Only a few trash bags, a bone saw, some garrote wire, and a nice specially-ordered dose of M-99. "Anyway, to business. You say that you have no enemies?"

"Why, that's absurd, Detective, ah-"

"-Moser."

"-Detective Moser. Everyone has enemies! Some are more vocal than others, but it's rare that someone would actually do something like this. I myself know of no one who hates me so much that they would try to attack my family like this."

"None at all?" Harry asks, just to be sure.

"I do not lie, Lieutenant. When I say something, I mean it," Guerrero levels an annoyed glare on him.

Harry grimaces, and levels a few more procedural questions at Guerrero, who either deflects or plays dumb all for all of them, before the Lieutenant walks up to the metal table to shake the drug lord's hand.

"Thank you for coming in, sir," he says through gritted teeth.

"It's no trouble, Lieutenant, just keep that dog of yours on a leash," Guerrero refers to Doakes before pointing at me, "Have this one do your interviews. God only knows he's better at it."

With that, two officers come in and escort the man out of the questioning room and out into daylight.

"This will be trouble," Harry sighs, "And I think it's only just beginning."

Ah, Harry, he always has had a knack for understated melodrama.

* * *

><p>Limbo Morgan has decided that it is in her best interest to ditch the overly-dramatic scowls she's been making at me, and reverts back to sweet, awkward, best-friend Debra Morgan. She annoys the crap out of me if she stays like this too long, the first eighteen years of my life prove that, but with her unusually somber mood, even this is a beautiful reprieve. I drive her to the Funeral Home I grew up in; she is absolutely bubbly, even her shoulder punches aren't quite as painful!<p>

She's also a lot easier to talk to like this.

"Dexter, turn up the radio," she says, I complying. "You got anything on our killer yet?"

"Nothing yet." Because he's hooked me into his game like a crazed groupie, and I'm waiting for his next move...

... absolutely breathless.

"What's wrong?" she asks, leveling a Harry-stare at me, for a second it actually makes me recoil a bit. It doesn't look goofy anymore; now, she seems to wear it well. "You've been... distant the past couple of days."

I snort, "Have I? No more than usual?"

"Shut up, Dex," she says in a gruff manner, "This is serious."

"No, it's not really," I respond charmingly, "I just haven't been feeling well, but being so close to you is already making me feel better."

Her annoyed stare turns to an annoyed smile.

"You don't think Eliza will be jealous?" she questions in a mock-sultry tone; well, at least she's humoring me.

"She can join, too, if she wants," I grin, "The more the merrier!"

"You're sick," my little surrogate sister replies; I smile.

"You don't know the half of it," I say. "When you spend as much time around murder as we all do, it's hard not to get a little bit sick in the head."

"Oh, yeah? Why is that?"

Because I am a killer?

"All that blood," I say. "Disgusting stuff. Ordering it, and analyzing it is... surprisingly satisfying."

"Ha," Deb snorts, "That _is_ a little fucked."

"You know what else is?" I ask. Deb inclines her head in vague interest. "I think I know why our killer kills."

Now, she's interested. I grin a little grin at her, and she gives me her own toothy smile, which is much, much more pretty than that scowl she's come to wear so often.

"Do you know why killers hate using guns?" I ask slowly; Deb shakes her head, indicating she doesn't know. "Because guns are a waste of time. No one wants to kill a person if it can be done in a few, pointless seconds. The victim won't even know what hit them. All killers love the fear a knife might create. Just looking at it is much more frightening than the barrel of a gun."

"So, we're looking for a guy who wants to spread fear? Aren't most killers like that?"

"But there's something different about this guy. If Guerrero is telling the truth about not having any enemies, which I doubt, there's something to follow on. Nobody will attack a drug lord's niece unless they are powerful and said drug lord owes them something, or it's a man with absolutely _nothing_ to lose."

Deb nods, mulling over the options, as we speed through surprisingly light traffic for a Miami evening towards my mother's home.

* * *

><p>"Ma? I'm home!" I call.<p>

"Dexter!" my mother, Laura, calls, running out of the kitchen. "And Debra, too! I thought you two wouldn't be able to make it. Is Eliza coming?"

"Uh, no," I say, "She's been tied up as of late with some Forensic work."

"Little brother," I hear Brian's unmistakable voice from my side, where he stands with the ever-pretty Rita Bennett. "How are you this fine evening?"

"Quite alright, thank you," I reply in a monotone, "Big brother."

In a flash, we are sitting at the dinner table. We make small-talk, my mother asks if Deb's found a man, to which she blushingly replies that she hasn't. Dee tells mom to be less bold about such topics; Deb waves it away nonchalantly, but I notice that the brunette takes a rather large gulp of her wine afterwards.

Debra has never had the greatest dating record, but to what extent, only deaf and dumb Dexter knows. The problem with her is that Deb is too impulsive when it comes to relationships. She jumps in to them too easily, and jumps out just as quickly. I think it was during her freshman year in college, and my senior year, that we lived together in an apartment on campus and she had four or five different boyfriends. And don't even get me started on the 'confused' stage she went through that year, where I had suddenly started seeing a lot more women lounging around our shared apartment...

I suppose it was because she was a big fan of sexual experimentation and I was about as sexually active as a turtle that people wondered why fun, engaging Debra Morgan could be best friends with mostly charming, but sexually repressed and overly-serious Dexter Moser. It worked somehow, and I think it was mainly because Debra had a childish crush on me. Of course, I'm always charming now, and Deb's grown up, which means I can rest easy and not worry about extra attention (especially now that dear Debs is a cop), but somehow I can't help but feel I'm partly to blame for the near-celibate lifestyle the poor girl now leads.

It's actually amazing that she's been able to keep control for the past couple of years because I don't think I've met a boyfriend of hers since Deb went into the force.

We eat, listening to Ben and his wife, my sister-in-law, Kathy, entertain us with stories about parenthood, until Brian levels a remark at me:

"So I started to build that design you gave me," he says nonchalantly, cutting into his mushroom gravy-covered pork chop with an air of disinterest.

"And how's that working out?" I question.

"Well, the fact that it's a completely working prosthetic augmentation is insane, whether or not it's been built yet," he smiles.

"Yeah, but you have to test it on a person," I reply. "No one is sure that a metal arm will work unless you test it. The theoretically sound isn't always practical. And it has to work with a certain body-type, otherwise it can be-"

"-rejected," Brian cuts me off, "I know, Dexter."

We look around at the table; Ben looks at me politely as he's probably the only one who gets the conversation due to his knowledge that comes from being a mortician. All the women, however, look at Brian and I as if we had suddenly put on turbans, started speaking Arabic, and were now getting ready to fly away on our magic carpet to the Sultan's palace.

"Uh... what?" Rita asks, intelligently expressing what all the rest of the happy Moser family (and one Morgan) are thinking.

"It was a little puzzle Dexter and I have been trying to figure out since high school, how to make a fully-working prosthetic limb," Brian says. "I don't know why, for some reason, both Dexter and I have felt close to amputees and we wanted to find a way to help them."

"You make it sound like you never even considered the idea of getting a Nobel Peace Prize," I counter, grinning. Brian waggles his eyebrows in a playful way.

"In any case, Dexter and I worked out a possible way to create a fully-functioning titanium arm that uses electrical circuits function the way a regular arm does, even replicate nerve tissue."

The idea came from a declassified KGB file a friend in Moscow who owed me favor gave me. I changed a few things here and there, and built off the scientist's observations to what I think might work.

"Of course, I'm still in the process of building it, and I need you to help me with it, Dex."

"You still need the blood?" I ask.

"Well, I need _some_ tissue to link it to," Brian shrugs.

"Fine, come by my apartment tomorrow afternoon," I say. Hopefully cancer patients aren't excluded from the prosthetic transplant list. "I'll give you a sample."

We eat on, reserving our conversations only for pointless small-talk now until Dee asks us to go to church. I try to deflect, but she is persistent:

"Come on, Dex," she says, "You used to _love_ church!"

I loved it because there was a pond nearby the church always had ducks in them. These ducks would always fight and peck at each other over territory or some other inane reason that must seem important to those attack chickens, and I was absolutely transfixed by the violence. My father and I would sometimes watch the ducks together before the sermon, while Dee, Brian, and Ben would sit through Sunday School like the polite little tykes they were, and we'd even place bets on which duck would win the fight. God had nothing to do with my love of church. The ducks and Norman Moser did.

"Yes, I did," I reply, "But that was when dad and I went."

The table falls dead silent. They know that our father is a touchy subject, especially for me, considering I had watched the man die right in front of my eyes.

I was eighteen. It was a carjacking. Just a senseless murder. One that made no sense, and in Dexterland _everything must make sense_. A man shot him, told me to get out of the car, and drove off, never took care to notice that a middle-aged man was left dying on the sidewalk.

He was caught, obviously. But it made no sense. What do criminals think about, what does anything they do mean? It weighed heavily on my mind for the next few years, drove a wedge between Brian and I, and Deb and I once she moved in with me on campus. Why do men like Norman Moser, a model man of the community, die while monsters like me and the man who stole the car get to watch the light leave his eyes?

"Dexter, I'm sorry," Dee apologizes profusely, she knows that my father and I were close, even if I was closer with Harry, "I didn't mean it that way."

And then, after my senior year in college, I left. It would take genocide in Serbia, thieving in Vladivostok, and a face-to-face meeting with real criminals to understand what the criminal mind thinks of. But I never could understand why the man who killed my father, Jason Carson, did what he did.

He's dead now. And I never even got the chance to kill him.

"I know you didn't, Dee," I reassure her, feeling a surge of protectiveness for my little sister. I don't want to hurt the pure, blonde, little thing. "I'll come. I'll see if I can bring Eliza as well." Dee's smile brightens my night a bit, and I take a look at Deb, giving her a questioning glance. If I'm going to church, we may as well _all_ suffer:

"You and Harry should come, too," I say. Deb chokes slightly on her drink.

"Uh... n-no," she says, calming herself down, "I don't think so."

I level my own Harry-glare at her; I've always been better at it anyways:

"I do think so," I reply with a grin, "take after the Lord your savior; if he could take the weight of the entire world's sins, I think you can suffer a few hours well for friends, right?"

"Sunday at nine o'clock," Dee smiles. "Don't be late, Dex. And you and Harry, too, Deb."

Deb glares. I snort in laughter.

* * *

><p>The moon caresses my skin softly. It's only eight o'clock, but a full, glorious moon begs me to do what I do best. Besides, no one wants to come up this way without absolute need to. There are no more barriers. I no longer have to be Dexter Moser, I can be... whatever I <em>really<em> am. I've found Jeremy Downs lives in an orphanage, but often sneaks out in the middle of the night. So I wait in the bushes, all traces of Dexter gone, and only we, beautiful, dangerous, all-singing _we_ is left!

I've left behind the coil that is my pretend-humanity, and now everything has kicked into hypersensitivity. The night shadows are now lighter, the sounds have been dimmed, until all I can hear is the rushing of blood past my ears and I can taste blood in the air. Dexter and The Dark Passenger are one, and when we are _we_, we have no care for anything else but that sweet, hot, gooey, sticky red liquid.

The air smells, like garbage-with all sorts of decaying foods and other such malodorous effects in it. It's suffocating, but I force myself to breathe it in, because dimpled Dexter's Dark Passenger will act as his very own gas mask and clean the unclean and make it so very delicious to my senses. Instead of decaying pork rinds, I smell a _Medianoche_ sandwich; instead of foul weeds everyone else sees and smells-they really _are_ quite a problem in Miami these days, someone ought to do something about them-I smell delicious roses; instead of the gross air to the world at large, I smell blood, blood, _blood_!

The rush of blood pounding in my eardrums fade for me to hear the slight sound of a window opening. I look up, still hidden within the bushes, a good two hundred feet away from the orphanage, and I make out the image of Jeremy Downs, sneaking out of his little halfway home from hell. Right on time, Jeremy.

My own code, the unbreakable way of justice taught to me in a dank little cell somewhere in Far-Eastern Russia has been satisfied. Mr. Downs practically incriminated himself, and even if, I don't need perfect law. I need perfect justice. Laws are roundabout, and are meant to protect, justice is straight, direct, and meant to be dispensed. And Jeremy, you are number one on dashing Dexter's list.

He looks around to either side twice after he reaches the ground, but I stay put. He will be heading into the brush soon, headed straight for the woods. That's where I'll cut him off, garrote wire at the ready to strangle and ask him that beautiful, magisterial word:

_Why_?

Why, indeed. But who can really answer that question? Why do we anything that we do? What a conundrum. It usually stumps my tablemates for a long, long while. So long, that I often get impatient and am forced to discard of their wriggling little toes.

Jeremy walks off towards the direction of the brush, the Dark Passenger sighs breathily into my ear. I know. It'll be a few more minutes. Rest assured, you will get your fill tonight. I move stealthily after him, taking care to move as little of the brush as possible. He walks farther and farther away from the orphanage, completely unaware that he walks to his own doom. Soon enough we are in the forest, among gnarled mangroves and wet leaves and, magically, too far from the orphanage for any prying eyes.

The padded shoes were a good investment. They make stalking much easier, and in a flash, with the garrote in hand, I am a paltry few feet away from Downs, who makes no move to look back. And then, I pounce.

Garrote wire wraps around the oval-faced murderer's neck with practiced ease, immediately pulling him towards the ground so he can't fight back. The white mask over my face is hit with a bit of dirt, making me look like I'm a walking Rorschach's Blot, but I don't notice, and am, instead, pulled into the dark corner of my brain where Dashing Dexter and his Dark Passenger become one.

"Why did you do it?" we ask coldly to the struggling boy.

The sack of flesh only gags and hacks in response. We tighten the wire for a moment, before loosening it just enough so my tablemate can breathe.

"Do what?" he asks with that practiced fear only a psychopath can truly display.

"Don't play dumb," we growl in a beastly manner, "we know you're lying."

"W-we?" He asks shakily.

"You don't ask the questions." We tighten the cord again, this time cutting a little into the flesh, a bit of exalted blood escaping his disgusting throat.

"What? Are you gonna rape me?"

"No such luck," we say.

"Because the last guy who tried to rape me is dead!"

"Dead? As in Frank McCready?"

"Yes, as in Frank Mc-fucking-Cready!" he gasps for breath, "I killed him, and I'm not sorry!"

How could this be possible? This will never satisfy the Code, murder is relative! What he did was a simple kill, and a _justified _one at that. Fuck! I can't... I can't... I can't... why? No one's looking. The Dark Passenger needs to be satiated. We _need_ this. He made the mistake of being in the wrong place... damn it. Dear Dimpled Dexter hasn't got a shot in hell of justifying this. There is no way to kill him and feel _right_!

"Kill me, then!" he yells out, sobbing, "I don't fucking care! I can't feel anything, so just kill me!"

But there's the temptation. The sweet, sweet temptation. I can squeeze a little harder, and cut straight through his throat and carry the vile little boy's head like a sick trophy. It would be freeing.

So why... can't I? And then, a thought jumps into the forefront of my mind.

I can.

* * *

><p>He wakes up on the table as the Dark Passenger flicks his dry tongue out to tickle my brain with a supernatural charge of excitement.<p>

"Hello, Mr. Albright," I say, smiling. It's one o'clock in the morning. "I hope you'll forgive me for being so quick about this whole unfortunate situation, but you just jumped up to the top of my special list, and I had to put a rush on the whole presentation."

I indicate the plastic wrap surrounding us. It isn't quite as meticulous as I normally like to be, but it will get the job done. Jeremy is resting in his orphanage room, thinking about a conversation that he and a walking Rorschach's blot had. About not being so empty, about killing those who deserve to die.

But Albright hasn't a clue about that. He doesn't know about killing those who deserve it. After all, there are some interesting videos I found on his desktop while he was sleeping like a little baby:

"Really, you couldn't keep it yourself, could you?" I ask, playing a homemade video of Albright raping a woman who most definitely is _not_ Julie Gunn. "Videos. Did you want to get caught?"

I told Jeremy I would that he doesn't need to be empty, that all he needs to find is the right person to kill. Someone who deserves it. Like Albright over here.

Fear hasn't settled in yet, so he tries anger.

"Was one of them your wife?" he spits out vehemently. "I hope she was."

That makes the next two hours _even more_ enjoyable.

* * *

><p>I always feel so mellow after a kill. And this one should satiate the Passenger for a month or two. Slipping back into my seat, I've never felt so comfortable. Of course, the coughing fits have died down, and I feel better, for the most part. But, soon, I'll have to get my beautiful hair shaved off, and then, the cat's out of the bag.<p>

But, that's so _long_ from now. I kick my feet up onto my desk and look into my newest file. We've hit a spell in Miami, for some reason, murder just seems like a great idea mid-February. It's an open and close case of a man who tried to crucify his wife in some Santeria ritual, a cross between Animism and Catholicism-don't ask me how it works. All he ended up doing was making a bloody mess and forced Masuka and I to clean up a severed goat's head that he left on the floor to complete the ritual.

Harry and Matthews have really got to get on the ball. I can't be a detective _and _the blood guy.

"Dexter, don't look so comfortable," Harry orders sternly, looking down at me reproachfully.

"Sorry," I say.

"You need to go back to that high school," Harry says. "More people to interview."

"Delightful," I sigh. The kids there are annoying, but maybe I'll get to speak to Jeremy again.

"Take Debra with you," Harry says. "She needs a good mentor."

"I still don't know where you get the idea that I'm that mentor, but fine," I reply, taking my feet off the table and standing up. I call on the younger Morgan to follow; her head perks up and she gives me a soft grin.

"Be right there, Dex," she says as I nod and wait for her at the elevator.

* * *

><p>There's something wrong. Even as Deb and I pull up to the school, we know something is awfully wrong. For starters, people are filing out of the school, some are running; some are screaming; some are crying; and still others walk, completely numb. Deb gives me a confused look as we both step out of the car. I tell her to keep her gun at the ready; the Dark Passenger and I can tell something has gone amiss.<p>

Deb sees a teacher she had been speaking to yesterday and calls out to her:

"Mrs. O'Hara!" Deb cries out, "what happened?"

"Oh my God," she blubbers and wails, "it's... it's him! He's inside! Oh my God!"

"Who?" I ask.

"J-Jeremy," the supernatural high I get from killing someone comes crashing down, as if someone had suddenly turned the switch for pleasure off, crashing down as the world goes topsy-turvy. He didn't... he couldn't have... _I__told him not to kill anyone who didn't deserve it_!

We can't get anymore out of Mrs. O'Hara.

"Deb, call for backup," I say, pulling out my service pistol, a Beretta 92FS as I head for the building. Deb radios it in before following close behind.

We enter the school, filing down its long hallways and passing by school officials who stand in a seemingly shocked and dazed manner. We stop to talk to one of them, who tells us that there's no reason for the firearms to come out. Deb and I let him lead us on to a classroom, where Deb pauses to look at the holocaust in front of her, before shutting her eyes and walking in, breathing with difficulty.

I stop, looking down at the majestic spatters of blood and brains across the blackboard and wryly think that the school officials will have a tough time to erase this mess from the blackboard. And then, I look down to see a body sprawled face-first on the ground.

His body.

Jeremy Downs brought an old M19A11 handgun into class this morning, and shot himself. Front and center. So starts Mr. Downs's fifteen minutes of fame. His face is obscured by the ground and blood, but the exit wound leaves a bloody, pinkish mess that begs the uninformed viewer to wonder if that _thing_ had ever been atop a human child's neck. No matter how obscured and violated Jeremy's face may be, I know it's him.

He did what I said. He killed the one person who deserved it. He doesn't have to feel empty anymore, because what's made him empty is gone. And with a sickening crack from my conscience's whip of guilt in my inner-brain, I realize that the blood spattered on the board and on desks, and most likely some students, is all my doing. Mine and mine alone.

I killed Jeremy Downs.

The school officials file out of the room and Deb, being a creature of emotion, hugs me, burying her face into my shoulder. The human companionship is a nice sentiment and I absentmindedly wrap my arms around her shaking form. But I can't see her. All I can do is stare at that poor boy's prone form.

I killed him.

_I killed him._

What kind of justice is this?

* * *

><p>"He kept saying that it was him," says the teacher of the Junior English Literature Class Jeremy had shot himself in. "That he killed Frank McCready and that he deserved this. And then he, and then he-"<p>

Deb pats her shoulder; Batista gives me a grim look, and I try to look sympathetic, but I honestly don't care what this teacher feels. I tried to help Jeremy. He was supposed to kill those who really deserved it, I was supposed to put him on the right path-to the code I was taught thousands of miles away.

I jot a few obligatory notes down.

But maybe he deserved it after all. Then again, who among of the billions of shadows on our planet doesn't?

I certainly do.

* * *

><p>"Down at the University of Miami Hospital, we've got an assisted suicide," Harry says, "I want you to head down there."<p>

Angel and I drive to the hospital in silence. The day has obviously been trying. But we're greeted by no less a disturbing sight when we get to the hospice section of the U of M Hospice Care Floor. An Oncology patient with advanced cancer was the one who died.

Batista and I come up to see a wild-eyed and crying middle-aged woman being lead toward the elevators we come from. I recognize her immediately as the patient I saw no less than days ago-what was his name? Hartmann? Yes, Hartmann's wife. She catches my eyes and sees the detective's shield on my chest and bawls out:

"You understand don't you?" She sounds hysterical. He was already gone! He wanted this, he needed it! You understand; don't you? Please, _please_, tell me you do!"

"I understand," I say in a mechanical fashion; I have no patience to be empathetic anymore.

"Thank you, thank you. God bless you!" Mrs. Hartmann exclaims, trying to hug me, but the police officers drag her away as she utters another chorus of 'thank yous and 'God bless yous.

We walk to the room that doctors and officers crowd around. I catch Brian's eye, who looks exceptionally doctorish today. He stares at me and shakes his head, sighing at the damage inside the room.

It's pitiful, really, there's just one wasted and frail figure lying there. His eyes are open and he looks surprisingly content for a dead man. It's Hartmann.

It seems that death just follows me around, doesn't it?

* * *

><p>"He just shot himself?" Brian asks, slightly incredulous. Deb takes a large gulp of her beer.<p>

"Yeah," I say, grimacing as the hypodermic needle pricks my skin, Brian sets up a few extra things, and then starts drawing blood. The red, slimy liquid starts filling a capsule, and both Brian and I look at it, transfixed.

"It was... horrible," Deb starts, also staring at the blood. "He was too young."

"Not young enough to kill, though," Brian snorts; Deb levels a Harry-glare at my brother, who decides it's in his best interest to back off.

"Doesn't change the fact that he's still too young," the Morgan says after a long moment.

This has really shaken her up, hasn't it?

"I'll see you tomorrow, gotta go say hi to Rita and the kids," Brian says once he finishes, "we're going to work on this thing together, you know? Like a sibling project."

I smile. "Okay," I say as he shuts the door behind him.

Deb and I sit in silence for a moment before she looks at me and asks:

"Do you think he deserved it?"

"People often don't get what they deserve," I say truthfully, leaning back into the couch, "So, no."

The Morgan wraps her arms around my shoulders and rests her head on top of my collarbone, staring off into space. I wonder for a moment what Deb is thinking, and I also wonder what Eliza would think if she saw this. But I remain quiet, and think about how I could have helped Jeremy, and how badly I screwed it up.

* * *

><p>Sunday morning. It's a nice, temperate day in Miami, and there is what I'm sure is a rousing sermon going on inside that church, but I couldn't bring myself to sit in there for too long. It's times like these I wonder what it is that makes the human condition so unreachable, and why I can't ever grasp it. What is it about this puzzle that I don't understand?<p>

I sit on a bench in front of the pond of our church, newspaper in hand as I look out over the green water.

The ducks are fighting again.

"I'll say the one on the right is the winner," I turn to see my tall, graying father sitting next to me on the bench. I know he isn't real, and that this must be a crazier part of myself manifesting in the real world.

"Are you kidding, dad?" I ask, Norman turns his head and smiles, "The one on the left will definitely win."

The ducks flap their wings at each other and peck away.

"You wanna bet on that?" he asks, "A quarter."

"A quarter?" I snort, "really?"

"Yeah, why not? Afraid you'll lose to your old man?" he asks, reaching into my suit-jacket pocket and pulls out a quarter, holding it under my nose.

The duck on the right suddenly flaps his wings and divebombs into the left one, sinking it underneath the water.

"Damn," I smile.

"Looks like you lose, son," he replies, "But I'll give you a chance to win it back."

"How?" I question, feeling safe. I like being here. Another group of ducks begin fighting each other, making high-pitched hissing noises at each other.

"Coin toss?" he suggests amiably, "After all, the best things in life are won by chance."

"Really?" I ask.

"Of course," my father replies, rolling the quarter through his fingers, back and forth. "You know, this quarter was made in 1975. The year you were born. It's exchanged hands countless times over thirty years and finally it ends up in yours. And here comes the moment of truth, of whether this coin is yours or mine."

"What?" I ask.

"Call it in the air," he flicks the coin upwards.

"Tails," I say quickly. Norman catches it and slaps it against his other hand, revealing the coin to be on the 'tails' side.

"Mazel tov," he grins, "it's your lucky quarter. It's a part of you now, it can't ever be mixed with other quarters because it can't ever just _be _another quarter."

"But what if what wants to be just another quarter?" I ask slowly.

"It can't," Norman says simply, wrapping a protective, fatherly arm over my shoulder, "No matter how much it wants to be."

I exhale slowly, unsure of what to say.

"Because if it becomes another quarter, its symbolic value is diminished. You won so much more than a mere twenty-five cents here, so why make this moment worth only that? You're worth more than a quarter, so why turn your quarter into just a coin?" Norman says, bringing me in closer. I can smell him, like a rugged mountain-man, anything and everything I associated with the word 'father'.

"But... why? Why can't I change anything, then?"

"Of course you can change something," he says nonchalantly. "You're the lucky bastard who lived through that carjacking! You're still alive. There are millions of things _you can change_. But, _this_, trust me when I say it's unchangeable."

"I believe you," I say.

"You just have to bear with it, because you're a man," he smiles, giving my ear a little flick with his index finger, "you just have to look at your faults; your demons, and smile and suffer well. I hope you understand that someday, Dex."

"So this is where you've been hiding," a smooth, calm, clear voice breaks through my reverie. When I look to where my father was, all that remains is an empty seat on a park bench. I turn to look and see Brian's ever-pretty girlfriend, Rita, who wears in a very fetching blue summer dress that makes her hair look an even more angelic shade of gold, walking towards me.

"Hey, Rita," I acknowledge.

"Can't stand the sermon either?" she questions as she passes the bench and plops down in the seat next to me.

"Dee is big on religion," I shrug, "I'm not. Haven't been for a while."

"Ha," Rita laughs, a soft and lilting sound, like a hummingbird, "Me neither. Sometimes religion just feels... I don't know..."

"...Suffocating?" I supply helpfully.

"Yeah. Suffocating. But the kids like it, and Brian likes the novelty of it all; so I guess it's alright with me in that case," she starts, before looking out at the pond. "Are those ducks fighting each other?"

"Yeah," I laugh a little, "I always found the irony hilarious. In there-" I point to the the church's large, brick walls, "-they preach about holiness and peace and goodwill, while right outside, there are a bunch of fighting ducks, nearly killing each other for dumb reasons."

"But even the best reasons for a person to fight might seem stupid to God," Rita says, an enlightened glow on her face. "So it might seem dumb to us, but important to them. And ultimately, do we really matter at all to them?"

"Probably not," I reply, rolling the quarter Norman gave me across my knuckles.

"What's that?" She asks.

"It's a quarter," I say. "My father gave it to me."

"Ah," she says, "Brian tells me you had a bad week at work."

"Something like that," I say. "A kid killed himself at a school. Shot himself in front of the class."

"That's awful," Rita says, giving me her full attention.

"Yeah," I say insincerely, "It is. But, we all have to move on, don't we? The world can't stop for one person. We just have to smile, and suffer well."

Rita raises an eyebrow; clearly she must be intrigued, before she nods with a soft smile and we go back to watching the ducks peck and flap their wings at each other. I open up the newspaper, feeling at ease around the blonde woman, and find a small article on the third page that says: _Delle High School Rocked By Second Tragedy._

And I read:

_It was 77 degrees on a temperate Miami afternoon when a shot rang out of the 124A classroom at Delle High School..._

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> This chapter is, in many ways, based off the song 'Jeremy' by Pearl Jam. In fact, there are quite a few references to the band and the song throughout the chapter, next chapter will center more on the guy who killed Carlos Guerrero's niece and we get to meet another character from the Dexter universe as they appear in this AU. Thanks again for reading, and drop me a review, as this is a chapter I really want to get some feedback on; I'll try to send out a response to whoever reviews.

Geist.

P.S.: Everyone bow down and give thanks to the awesome beta work of Aerafax; you're the best, Prax!


	4. Vertigo

**Summary: **Dexter attends his first Cancer Support Group meeting, where a pretty, young Englishwoman catches his eye. The Guerrero Murders take a turn towards interesting Dexter and a new murder sends shockwaves through Miami Metro, galvanizing Debra when she realizes that the killer is tracking prositutes.

**Down on the Upside**

* * *

><p><em>'A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get in accordance with them: they are legitimately what drives his conduct in the world.'<em>

-Sigmund Freud

* * *

><p><strong>'Vertigo'<strong>

* * *

><p>"My name is Hector," the Hispanic man on the left side of the circle of chairs starts, "and I've got lung cancer. Stage three. They say I got a few years to live, at best." A few people make dry-heaving sighs, as if truly saddened this man they don't even know has a death sentence hanging over his head.<p>

"Sometimes, I don't really know what to say," the man continues, "I feel... _numb_, you know? Some days it's like one of them Cancer doctors've give me them drugs, and I just sit there. I don't hear nothing, you know? I don't think I see nothing, too. Other times, man all I can say is _me cago en diez_ on this shit, man. It's fucked up, I know."

Some people laugh, clearly trying to make the man feel good about himself, and I join in by force of habit, but the Coordinator of the group, a thin man with a graying goatee, motions for silence as he begins:

"It isn't fucked up, Hector. It's... just a new state of being."

I stop paying attention. It's been two weeks since Jeremy Downs killed himself in Classroom 124A of Delle High School. Since then, I've started to come to this Cancer Group, mainly at Doctor Kuhlmann's request. Of course Dexter the Dark would rather be in his killsuit rather than a black rayon shirt and khaki-colored jeans that he wears to this meeting, but what can I do?

I know. This is not my element. It reeks of weakness; of sadness; of broken souls trying to reforge themselves, trying to find the perfect glue through a fractured ideal. But, once again, there is little I can do about it. Two weeks is a surprisingly short amount of time, but long enough to get used to the supremely depressing.

And over these past few weeks, Rita and I have become... friendlier. Well, I doubt we've really become friendlier, she simply thinks we've become best friends since our chat outside the church. In fact, the sudden Dexter-Rita parade has surprised quite a few of our acquaintances. Naturally, it delights my brother, who seems to want nothing more than his baby brother and baby girl get along well, but it seems to confuse two people who are, admittedly, huge parts of the persona that surrounds Dexter Moser: Eliza and Debs.

Eliza is simply uncomfortable with it, and possibly annoyed by it, if the last movie we went to are any indication. Rita jabbered at me for about two-and-a-half hours, and me, being the docile paragon of humanity I am, engaged her in conversation. This, of course, seemed to leave little room for our respective dates to talk to either Rita or I, and it eventually led to Eliza and Brian exchanging exasperated looks at each other.

And Debs simply seems surprised; she had probably thought no one else threatened her position as Dexter Moser's best friend. She certainly has nothing to worry about; I do not plan on making friendship bracelets with the blonde, but it is rather funny to see an irked Debra, even if it often promises pain.

"I'm Derrick," Another reedy mess of a man begins, clearly the cancer has taken its toll on him, "I have Renal Cell Cancer."

As for work, Harry has been trying to interfere to help out Debra in every way that couldn't have him accused of nepotism, but Sergeant LaGuerta seems to be hell-bent on either booting Debs out of Homicide or completely and irreparably ruining her career before she throws her out. Either way, things don't look good for a stressed Debs.

In fact, she doesn't look very good at all lately. Pale, sickly, with a constant frown on her face, she looks like me only without cancer. I would say I'm concerned about her well-being, but then I'd probably be lying; these past two weeks have made me realize I don't care much for anyone.

Yes. I'm an asshole. Sue me.

"Hello," a soft, lilting English voice interrupts my thoughts. Huh. It's not often you hear an accent like that in Southern Florida, "My name is Lila Tournay," I look up to see a very pale and very pretty woman with raven black hair gazing languidly upon us. "And I..."

Well, if she has cancer, she must not have had it long, if her perfect hair is anything to go by. And, naturally, I suddenly feel the urge to rub my own head, where my hair has been cut to a fine-length so no one will notice it's all falling out, so I follow through and run may hand through my once-thick head of Velcro-like fibers.

"It's alright, Lila," the Coordinator begins, "You're in a circle of friends. We won't judge you."

"I have... Ovarian Cancer," she finishes spryly, "Very early stages." What a shame! Her eyes rove around the group of Cancer patients until they land upon mine. There's an almost imperceptible widening of her eyes, as if she sees something in my eyes. I very nearly look the opposite direction, and it takes me all my self-control to keep from averting my eyes.

The Passenger, the dark little corner of my lizard brain issues a warning, telling me to be wary of this pretty, porcelain doll of a woman. But that corner of my lizard brain has often treated me well for listening to it, so I decide that I should keep a wary on this one.

Lila barrels through her opening speech of sorts and before long, I find that the meeting has ended and we are left to enjoy the refreshments the volunteers have laid out for us on a table by the wall. I go immediately to the doughnuts, spotting a bear claw. I love bear claws. But, just as I'm about to grab it, a voice interrupts me:

"You probably don't want to eat those, they're always stale," I turn around to see Lila standing beside me, "they get them at discount prices because the doughnuts are three days old." I grimace, looking at the bear claw only a few inches away before deciding, rather painfully, not to take it.

"Lila Tournay," she extends a delicate hand out; I shake it gently, fearing that if I grasped too hard, I might shatter her figurine hands.

"Dexter..." The Passenger's warning bubbles up through my spine once more, "... Morgan." Morgan? Could you imagine that? If I were Harry's son and Debs's brother? What a strange life that might have been!

"Dexter Morgan," Lila says thoughtfully, "What a strange name?"

"No less strange than Lila Tournay?" I ask.

She laughs; her smile is beatific, "No, I suppose not." I grin at her and reach out towards the coffee and she shakes her head once more, "bad brew," is all she says, and I recoil from the coffeepot. But, just as I'm about ask her where I might find a decent coffee around the dilapidated-looking warehouse where we meet, my cellphone rings. I check the Caller ID, and see it's Debs, probably with something on a case:

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" I ask; Lila obliges, letting me answer, "Debs," I say in an expectant manner.

"Dexter," the brunette replies in a terse manner across the line, "It's a long story but I need you here."

"Where is here?" I ask.

Debs sighs, "Down in Southbeach. We've got a murder."

"Can't this wait until morning? I'm kind of in the middle of something-" But, Debs has always been a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of person, and will not seem to accept no as an answer:

"Dex," she does not ask politely; she commands me to do her bidding, "Be here." She adds a hasty 'please' so as not to offend Best Friend Dex.

"Well, if you put it so nicely, I'll be more than happy to help," I reply magnanimously.

"Thank you," The Officer responds without seeming to mean it very much, before hanging up. I look at Lila apologetically:

"Duty calls," I say, she nods understandingly. "Sorry."

The raven-haired woman shakes her head, "No, no, it's no trouble. Will you be here next week?"

I nod, "For a few weeks, at least," I say before leaving the disused warehouse and out to Southbeach once Dispatch sends a text giving me the address to the house, which I easily recognize as Carlos Guerrero's home address from his police profile.

Could my friend the mystery murderer have killed again? The possibilities are endless. But my stomach grumbles loudly as I step into my little black Toyota Celica, which I picked up in Seattle when I had first come back to the United States.

It is decided, something to eat first.

* * *

><p>I step out of my car, which I nosed into a nice spot about five blocks away from the actual crime scene. It's amazing just how hard it is to find a parking space in Southbeach, which is probably a reason why I decided to move to the Bay Harbor Islands, which isn't quite as overpopulated. I make sure to hold the box of <em>Sadie's <em>Doughnuts steadily as I walk towards the flashing blue and red lights of patrol cars, the box in one hand, an apple cruller in the other.

The awful doughnuts at the Cancer Meeting had left me hungry, and I, unfortunately, have dusted off a bear claw, and am now finishing the aforementioned cruller.

It is a miracle of nature that I am not diabetic.

I finally reach the crime scene and come across the short form of Vincent Masuka, Forensic Investigator Extraordinaire.

"Master! I bring you gifts!" I open the box of doughnuts, letting Masuka take his pick of a glazed doughnut.

"At such hours? Padawan, you will either go far or collapse of heart attack on your way there!" He nods approvingly as he bites into the doughnut and gives me a horribly fake smile.

I give him a nod as Batista walks up and snatches the second bear claw, "Thanks, _socio_!" He gives thanks.

"_De nada_." I reply, "What've we got?"

"Shooting and a fire. Double Homicide, attempted third," Batista says thoughtfully whilst munching on his doughnut with gusto, "Victoria and Rose Guerrero, mother and daughter were killed; shot in the temple-" Batista brings up his unoccupied hand to his temple and mimics a gun discharging a bullet into his head, "-Carlos Guerrero, the third victim is alive, it's as if they left him to burn. His legs are cooked."

"Yummy," I snort, "Anyone up for barbecue?"

"That's fucked, Moser," comes a voice from within the police tape that I instantly recognize as my fellow Detective; James Doakes.

"Ah, James!" I exclaim in a falsely jovial manner, "Would you like a doughnut? I still have long johns, if that's what you're into."

"Fuck you, Psycho. Lieutenant wants you inside. Your case, he and his girl shouldn't be doin' your fucking work for you." Doakes says; I nod, leaving the doughnuts with a Uniformed Officer and tipping my metaphorical hat to Batista and Masuka.

"Hey, Moser, have fun in there," the Asian man remarks with a devious smile.

I look at him quizzically as Batista brings his hands to his chest and clasps them together in an exaggerated manner, "Dexter, your _corazon_ is in there!" He says. I feel around my own chest for my heart in a nonplussed manner. It is a small organ, but I don't think I would enjoy the two minutes I'd have left to live without it.

"Nope," I say, locating the rhythmic beating inside my chest, "found it."

"Not that kind, Dexter," the Cuban shakes his head, "your _real_ heart!"

Now I have no clue what he's talking about. I literally just located my heart for him and he still denies that I've found it. It's clear that logic won't move the detective, so I simply try to understand what he's saying, "Huh?" I ask.

"Heard Morgan calling you," the scientist grins, "sounded like a _whole_ lot of subtext, if you catch my drift."

I don't catch his drift. "Huh?" I ask again.

"Moser, would you fucking _hurry it up_?" Doakes asks from the periphery of our conversation, exasperated. I nod, having Batista follow me into the palatial home while Masuka sets up the Forensics equipment.

As I walk into the house, I come across a rather strange sight in the foyer: Carlos Guerrero; mob leader and drug kingpin laying strapped onto a stretcher and being carted away. We make eye contact for a moment, my clear, empty greens and his jaundiced, emotionally drained browns. He lifts a hand at me and begins speaking softly in a dialect of Spanish that I am not used to. I strain to hear the man, but can only make out words that would mean things like dog, police, and kill out of them.

Guerrero grabs my arm with a surprising amount of force once his arm passes by mine, and he says something, but I can't make it out still. He looks at me in the most heartbroken manner, and even I am surprised that a man like the one I had met only two weeks ago could turn into this mess, lolling in and out of consciousness with his body charred from the thighs down. But the Latina EMT sedates the man and apologizes as they cart him away.

"What did he ask me?" I question to Batista afterwards.

The man gives me a solemn look in response, "He wants you to kill the man that did this. There is no honor in killing a man's wife and daughter and letting him live. The man who did this does not deserve a trial, all he deserves is death."

I look around the large entrance hall to the marble stairs leading up to the second floor where fire fighters still loiter around and the roof seems to have developed the same char as Guerrero's legs and smile wryly, "That's probably all he _does _deserve."

"Yeah, you can say that again, _socio_," Batista says somberly, "No matter what a man does... there isn't anyone who deserves this."

"Dex!" Debra's voice calls from somewhere above me; I look up to see her standing at the railing above us, "Get the fuck up here!"

"Debra! You're in a public place!" Harry admonishes, walking to the railing, "It's your case, Moser; you should be up here."

"On it," I say, not wanting to keep someone with a temper like Harry's waiting.

"And someone get the fire fighters out of here; we've got a_ crime scene_ to investigate," Harry barks, spurning Batista into action as I bound up the marble staircase two at a time. I walk up to Debs, ignoring the burnt pieces if furniture, walls, and ceiling as I speak:

"Well, I'm here. What's it that couldn't wait till morning?"

"That," she says with a rather disdainful sniff, pointing to two burnt corpses, one spread out on what was once a divan, and one lays on the floor. Something tells me that she is not as sympathetic to Guerrero's plight as Batista is. "Double Homicide. Names are Victoria and Rose Guerrero."

Harry moves on towards the first floor, where, no doubt, the reporters are beginning to show; this leaves Debra and I free reign of the crime scene:

"What do you make of it, Dex?" She asks, looking at the teenage girl.

"Well, she was clearly killed by a shot to the temple, but if you look closely, it looks like they messed with a her a little bit first," I say, feeling around the throat.

"Why is that?"

"She has a broken Hyoid bone; it's generally a tell-tale sign of strangulation," a sign that I usually try to avoid when dispatching my own victims, "And the burning was done post-mortem."

"So?"

"Why burn a person when they're already dead, especially like this?"

Masuka saunters over to the bodies, snapping pictures, "What do you mean, Moser?"

"This isn't the same type of burning that got to Guerrero; it's like they were positioned close enough to the fire but not enough to suffer the same third degree burns as her father," I note the rather splendid color that comes to the girl's skin, as though it were an appetizing piece of pork, "In any case, that's all conjecture. What we've got here for sure is that both of these women were shot point blank with the same weapon. Rose was sitting here," I indicate a small couch she is laid out upon. "From the looks of things, the killer snuck out from behind them, using something like test fishing wire, something that isn't too heavy but can strangle someone with little trouble. While she is being strangled, killer pulls out a gun, possibly a Magnum, by the looks of it and fires."

I pause, looking down at the gunshot wound on the victim.

"What?" Debs asks.

"That makes sense, except..." I start, before I point to the exit wound, which is at the back of the head.

"Except that it makes no sense," Masuka remarks, snapping a picture of the exit wound.

Debs looks at the body in a quizzical manner: "If he was strangling her from behind, why did he shoot her from the front?"

"Maybe he let her go and moved to the front to shoot her?" Masuka supplies.

"No ligature marks on her neck, Dex," Debs replies, "so he didn't spin the rope around to keep her on a leash as he move around."

I crouch to the girl's level, putting my chin on my hand in a thinker's pose, "Then why wouldn't she try to move away as he let her go? It's a natural human instinct to run, especially when surprised; so why didn't Rose do the same?"

I stand up, and make a gun-shape with my hand, pretend to fire into Rose's head, and try to estimate where the bullet might have landed. Strangely enough, I find it on a linear, diagonal path towards the ground from Rose's head, which lays lolled back on the divan head rest.

"What, Dex?" The brunette asks, interested, as I move towards the back of the divan, and look at the bullet hole in the ground.

"This." I say, pointing to the little splintered hole in the flooring, "It's linear with how her head is positioned now. They didn't move the body, they just left it here."

Masuka continues snapping pictures with a blank face and Debs nods, before looking at me questioningly, "They?" She asks.

I ignore her for a moment and move to the side of Rose, pretending to have been strangling her. I raise up another imaginary gun and fire in the direction where Victoria Guerrero's body lays, which would create the blood spatter on the walls behind her corpse now.

"They." I smile, "Two of them. Possibly more, but at least two. Killer One strangles Rose from behind; Killer Two shoots her from front. Victoria Guerrero walks into the wrong place at the wrong time and Killer Two doesn't have enough time to react, so Killer One shoots Mrs. Guerrero from behind the divan, leading to that blood spatter on the wall over there."

"So," Deb begins, "You're sure about this? Two killers?"

"Not a hundred percent, but it's over fifty," I shrug nonchalantly.

Debra snorts, "Over fifty for you is a hundred for anyone else. Come on, Dex, let's go tell Dad."

I would normally follow at a brisk pace, but suddenly something feels very familiar as I stand up, causing me to pause as I survey the area of destruction. And I can feel the Dark Passenger's sibilant chuckle as I am pulled back into one of my memories.

* * *

><p><em>December, 1997<em>

Life goes on, I suppose.

I've been given a new chance at life by a man who says he works for the Russian government. Probably KGB. I hear they like to do this sort of thing with willing illegals. It's rather funny, when you spend a year in a maximum security prison for stealing; it gives you some perspective on the whole world. And, when someone gives you the choice of doing secret Peacekeeping mission (no doubt to keep the Post-Soviet Eastern Bloc from erupting into more wars) in exchange for no prison, you jump on that and don't let go until they let you go.

They do not care who I am. I do not have a name, or an identity; I am simply to work for them for three years, of which I am nearly done with the first, and then, I have to leave. Sounds like a raw deal, I know, but it's better than a Russian prison.

For the past few weeks, we've been escorting a group of Egyptian refugees who survived the Luxor Massacre and planned to give them passage into Germany. Of course, there is a bit of a language barrier, as I can only speak bits and pieces of Arabic, and often have to use a translator to speak to them. They aren't people meant to be put in these kinds of situations, they are skittish, easily frightened, and quite often stupid.

A girl abandoned camp to go looking for flowers in the middle of the night while we were in Serbia, even though I had specifically said that there are dangerous people in this area. Her mother went following after her once she had seen she was missing without alerting any of us. By the time we had noticed both of them were missing in the morning, they were long gone.

We took a detour of two days looking for this girl and her mother, practically draining our rations, when I caught wind that there is a group of cannibals out and about in the woods we were in who went insane during the harshest years of the Bosnian War. When we did finally find the mother and daughter, they were exactly as we expected: charred, half-eaten, and resting in sweet repose.

Two of the men from the group vomited. We buried them and moved on.

* * *

><p>"Dexter? Hello?" Debra asks, waving her hand in front of my face as I blink, "Jesus, I thought you weren't coming back."<p>

"I'm fine, Debs, let's go tell Harry," I reply, as we leave Masuka to finish taking photos and forensic evidence and reach Harry, who appears to be busy. He quickly tells us we can leave, but that he wants to be kept informed on the theory of ours that Debs presents to him, so we have to write up a thorough report to file on his desk by tomorrow morning.

I don't pay much attention, though; when the Dark Passenger has me remember a specific memory, it is usually a warning. So why did I remember the Cannibals in Serbia? Is there something special about it that I am to remember, or is it the eerie similarity between the two crimes and how they were perpetrated?

Almost as if they had me in mind.

A sense of dread climbs up my spine as I look over the vast patch of suburban land that I must cross to my car. A nameless fear, something to corner me with, to back me into a corner, to have me run from Miami and never look back. This fear creeps, moving up slowly through my back and brain and out to the rest of my body. And for a moment, I am gripped by something and it turns my legs into stone, so I content to stand at the brink of my past and look a while.

That is, until Debra interrupts me thirty seconds later:

"Dex," Deb says, "I kinda still don't have a car and got a ride here from my dad. You think you can give me a ride back to the station?"

I nod, "Sure, it's a bit of a walk, though. Couldn't find a good place to park nearby."

"I'm up for a walk," the brunette says quickly. I nod again, leading her down a few streets towards where my car is.

We walk in silence for a little while before Debs smiles slightly and ruffles my short hair, which seems kind of awkward, considering she is shorter than I am: "Nice work back there, Q-tip."

"Q-tip?" I question.

Deb snorts, "Your hair. I think it looks better when you let it grow out a bit." Well, that's out of the question, "This makes you look sick. Like a fucking cancer patient, or something." I wince slightly at her quick diagnosis; the Officer is quite bright, even though she knows about cancer as much as she knows Quantum Decoherence.

"Well, maybe it completes the look," I joke, "I can scare suspects into confessing by threatening to give them Hep-C."

My female companion punches me in the arm deftly, causing me to grimace and flinch, "Maybe you should've given thought to becoming a female boxer." I say, nursing my arm and rubbing my shoulder soothingly.

"What? And get my face mashed in every night?"

"It'd fix up your chin," I quip lightheartedly and flick the woman's chin as she punches me in the arm again.

"Jackass," she says, before rubbing my arm herself, this time, "Are you okay, Dex?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask, slightly enjoying the ministrations on my sore shoulder. Debs stops and looks up at me:

"Because you're not," she shrugs simply, turning me to face her. "I know you aren't. I know you better than anyone, trust me when I tell you that, and I can tell when you aren't all there."

"Well..."

"Come on, you look pale, you cough like you have lung cancer, you keep _zoning out_ and you still ignore me even though you _know_ you can't lie to me."

I'm sure I can't lie to you, Debra. It isn't at all like I haven't been doing it to you our whole lives. I remain silent even as we step into my car. She just stares at me for the longest time while I start the car and head towards the Venetian Causeway.

One of the great things about Miami at night is that traffic significantly lessens. In the mornings, traffic is delightfully homicidal: people cut each other off, swear at each other, extend middle fingers, and often threaten empty, vacuous threats. And of course, you'll often find yourself next to a Viagra-pumped geriatric in his '68 Impala and a gangbanger in his Camaro IROC-Z. At this time of night, however, people usually confine themselves to clubs in Southbeach or their homes on the other side of the Causeway. We had towards Flagler Street, where our precinct is located, and Debs just stares at me the whole time.

I try to turn up the radio and ignore her, but it does little to distract a persistent Debra Morgan:

"So, what? You're going to turn up the volume and listen to the radio and think that I'll just stop asking?"

"Something like that," I reply.

"Come on, Dex. Talk to me."

I snort, "No need to. Nothing to talk about."

She raises an eyebrow in response, "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Nope," I assure her, "Nothing. Nothing at all. Why don't you tell me something that's bothering you?" I decide to entreat her as we pull into a parking space in the lot of our precinct because she clearly looks like she could use a conversation, "I know you, too, Debs. There's something bothering you as well."

Clearly that's not what she wanted me to say because the brunette stops cold, and tries to work her mouth for a moment in complete confusion before it clamps down shut and she gives me a smoldering glare. For a moment, I think I can literally see my life flashing before my eyes. Her lip curls and nearly wrenches the car door off its handles as she opens it. The brunette turns around long enough to give me one last malevolent stare before speaking:

"Yeah," she says coldly, which I find remarkable, as she speaks through a clenched jaw, "_You are_."

And then she stomps off towards the door to the building, not even waiting for me, despite that we are supposed to work on the report together. I sigh, turning off the car and following in the poor girl's wake.

* * *

><p>It's morning again. I shift in bed, not wanting to get up, mainly because sleep does not come often these days, and a particularly vivid dream kept me from sleeping well. Now this may not seem all that abnormal, but I am not a normal person. As far as I am concerned, I do not dream. And yet, there it was, such a vivid, vivid, dream. Of rushing towards a woman, someone, <em>anyone<em>, and strangling her.

And it was such an exhilarating feeling, watching this poor, unsuspecting creature fall to the ground. Dragged her some place cold and narrow. Cold and narrow. Picked my tools, flailing little girl. And then, silence.

But that perfect silence of the early morning air, that sublime moment of Zen, is shattered when there comes a knocking at my door, and I am nothing if not a polite monster, so I force myself to get to the door and open it.

And then, the weirdest sense of deja vu hits me. There is Brian waiting for me with what appears to be a tupperware container full of food and Debs stands impatiently behind him.

"Brother; Debra," I greet in a greatly exaggerated mechanical voice.

"Rejoice, little brother," Brian says in a happy manner, "you will not have to make breakfast for yourself today."

What a shame; I love making myself breakfast, I like the methodical normalcy of it all. I sometimes like to think it is what normal people do to keep from murdering each other. Brian holds up a bag of what appears to be leftovers from dinner last night.

"Ma's?" I ask hopefully.

"Brother," Brian winks, "Do you think I'd feed you anything but the best?"

"I distinctly remember a time when you fed me a urinal cake in the third grade."

"Yeah, but you're not eight years old anymore."

I snort in response, "You might still be ten, though."

"Touché, brother of mine," my brother pushes past me and Debs stands outside, giving me an awkward smile:

"Sorry..." she begins awkwardly, "About last night."

"No harm done," I say quickly. There are many things in the world I do not like, and I one of them is having Debra angry at me, so if she offers an apology, I may as well accept and save us both a lot of trouble later.

"But, Dex," she leans in to whisper, "You know you gotta talk to me someday."

I let the pretty brunette in and she immediately stalks over to my fridge, pulling out some Orange Juice and uncapping it, moving seamlessly from the fridge to the cupboard where I keep my cups. Brian stops, observing her for a moment:

"Wow, she knows this place better than I do." He whistles.

"I don't think that's something to be proud of," I reply as Debs gives me a nonchalant 'go fuck yourself' sort of smile.

Soon, all three of us are sitting at my couch and watching the morning news as we eat, "See, Debs?" I ask, "Isn't this better than a strict McDonald's and Ramen Noodle diet every day?" Debra smiles and nods her head bashfully:

"I'm not much of a cooker."

Brian gives her a sideways look whilst taking a sip of his coffee, "Yeah," he says in a mock-snide manner, "I noticed."

"Well, let's throw you a fucking parade!" Deb drawls, causing Brian to chuckle and me to wince:

"Please, Deb," I say whilst rubbing my forehead, "It's seven in the morning, can you watch the language?"

"Don't be a pussy, Dex." She replies, taking a swig of her Orange Juice.

"Thank you," I respond with a distinct sense of hopelessness as Brian continues to imitate a hyena.

But, just as we settle into a comfortable silence of TV news and forks hitting plates, my phone rings, and a second later, so does Debs's. There is another crime scene to investigate up in Davie, and just close enough to Broward County territory that we're bound to catch heat from them. I copy down the address and rush to the bathroom, flossing quickly and tossing on freshly cleaned clothes; consisting of a dark button-up and black jeans as Debs and I head out to my little car. I tell Brian to lock up once he's finished and then, off we go.

* * *

><p>Broward County is situated just atop Miami-Dade County, which makes me wonder why no one decided to call Miami Metro the Miami-Dade Police Department, but someone must've had their reasons. In any case, Broward Police yokels do not like their Miami counterparts; mainly because we investigate real crimes, while they investigate facsimiles of them. After all, who kills <em>anyone<em> in Fort Lauderdale? Such a mundane city that the only crime anyone could really imagine coming out of it is loitering by one of the retirees that has a stroke in the middle of a field somewhere.

Debs and I step out of my car and survey our surroundings. A cheap motel. A cheap motel and a murder in South Florida can only mean one thing:

"Hookers," I say dispassionately. Debs sighs and rubs her forehead with her thumb and index finger:

"Yeah," she says, breathing deeply, "Definitely hookers."

We walk up to the police tape that surrounds the crime scene, when a rather unfriendly Broward Uni stops us. He has a slanted, low-brow sort of face that makes him look incredibly unintelligent, so much so that I am surprised when I actually realize this man is, wonder of wonders, capable of speaking:

"And you are?" He asks in a quiet, meant-to-be intimidating voice, but Debs and I only give him disinterested stares:

"Detective Moser, Miami Metro Homicide; Officer Morgan, Miami Metro Vice."

"Morgan?" He asks; surprised. And not in a good way.

"Yes," Debs says, clenching her jaws and rising up to her full height, like a cat readying itself on its haunches to strike, "Officer _Morgan_. Is there a problem with that?"

The Uni seems to be about ready to throw some rather colorful language at the brunette when he notices me giving him a polite stare. It's what I like to call the 'Get out of my way' Dex face, used very rarely, and really only on nights when the Passenger and I 'become one'. The lowbrow moron seems to get the hint that I am just as willing to tear out his lungs with a farming scythe as I am to shake his hand and backs away slowly, letting both of us through.

"You have gotta show me how to do that," Debs remarks with an emotion akin to awe as we leave the Uni behind.

"Do what?" I ask. Debra just smiles and pushes me lightly.

We come across Masuka, Batista, and Doakes, who immediately makes himself disappear once he sees me making my way towards the group.

"Dex!" Masuka calls, "Got that bullet you want, it's all shattered, but we think there might be a print on it."

A print? A _print_? There is no way this guy would have been so careless. No way at all.

"A print?" Debs echoes my disbelief, but with a distinct tinge of happiness to it, "A _mother_fucking print?"

"Yes," Masuka says in a secretary-esque voice, "That is what I said, isn't it, Morgan?"

"Dex, this is fucking great!" Debs grins widely, "If we can get one of these fuckers, we can use him to find the other, am I right?"

She _is _right, "It's a dilemma; less jail time for our guy with the print if he rats out the careful one." I say, in complete awe and shock. The brunette notices my displeased countenance and stops her parade long enough to cock her head to the side and give me a quizzical look:

"And for some reason, you don't seem to like that," she says, letting her previously upraised arms come flopping down to her sides. "What's up, Dex?"

I shrug; I expected more, is all. "Seems a little anticlimactic when you think about it." I choose to say instead.

"Well, would you rather catch the fucker anticlimactically or leave him out there to kill a few more people?" Deb asks in response. I nod, and she grins, clapping my back, "So just sit back and fucking _enjoy_ this for once; would you?"

Debs asks to be filled in on what's going on around here, of which Batista starts explaining:

"Dead hooker. Apparently the third one done exactly like this within the past two months. All victims were prostitutes in their late twenties. Drains the blood, freezes them, chops them up, and leaves them as a present for us to deal with. The _hijo de puta_."

"So then, we've got..." I start, trying to establish a lay of the land.

"... A serial killer?" Debs finishes my question for me, her mind probably filled with all sorts of anxious ideas on how this might advance her career once she gets into Homicide.

"Calm yourself, Miss Morgan," I say soothingly, "Wait till you're on Homicide first before going after the big-girl case. Besides, it doesn't look like this one is going anywhere for quite some time."

"Why not?" the Officer asks, clearly confused.

Masuka laughs in that horrible way of his, "'Why not?' she asks!" he snorts, "Because, Morgan, the Broward Boys hate your dad's guts." Batista and I nod sagely, as if lamenting a regrettable story from another time, before Debs was even cognizant of there being a Broward County PD.

"Why do they hate him?" the woman in question asks, "He never told me about it."

"Yeah he probably wouldn't have, because it happened when you were five years old." I reply.

"Then how do you know?" Debs interrogates, turning on me.

I shrug, "Harry told me about it when I was a teenager and we went hunting."

"Oh," she says simply, though I can tell that she is slightly hurt that Harry couldn't speak to her, his biological daughter, over me, the neighbor's kid.

Batista relates to the brunette the story of how Broward County and Miami Metro began their blood feud, which started in 1982, when I was seven and Debs was five. Of course, both of us were little more than aware that crime even existed, even though Debbie's daddy Harry was a hotshot detective, and we would much rather play kickball with Brian and Ben, nine and eleven respectively, than pay attention to police politics. Harry Morgan, a Detective who had a burgeoning family was assigned to a missing persons case that reeked of foul play.

It was supposed to be an inter-county display of camaraderie that forced Detective Morgan and Detective James Moon of the BCPD as partners. They worked well together, and even established some sort of friendship, which was something that ran low during the eighties in Floridian Law Enforcement. But, as with all such stories, another person was kidnapped, and as they got close to nabbing the perp, someone screwed up and spooked him. Killed the girl he kidnapped and went on his merry way, probably to Zihuatanejo, or some other place like Miami-warm beaches and awful memory.

To this day, no one knows really if it was Moon or Harry that screwed up the investigation, but it appears that both had gotten heated over it, and they were forced to separate. Naturally, the Broward County boys supported their own Detective and ours did so with Harry. And we vilified the other department's liaison. Either way, both Moon and Morgan are Lieutenants of their respective Homicide Department, and one does not see the territoriality going away, especially when the murder has practically been done on the Miami-Dade/Broward border.

Debs snorts at the entire story, "That's bullshit. Police fucking politics shits on our investigation once again! Hoo-fucking-ray." She says. One must admire that mouth of hers and how she can think of so many clever additions to a simple four-letter word.

"That's the world we live in, Debra," Batista says, "my dad was in the NYPD; it's all politics that forced him and my kid sister down here. And, there was the divorce, but it was mostly that he and his Lieutenant got into a fight and he was sent away down here."

"Huh," the brunette says thoughtfully, "Doesn't make it any less of a mound of horseshit, Angel."

"Speak of the devil," I say pointing to Harry, who comes strolling towards Lieutenant Moon with a rather severe look on his face. Debs rushes over to her father and stands at his side like a cute cub as Harry levels his own glare at the Broward County Homicide Lieutenant.

"Well," I say, "this is going to take a while."

"You got that right, _socio_." Batista responds with good-natured hopelessness.

"Well then," I reply, "I'm going to take a seat."

Just as I am about to turn away, I see a man pass me with a Vice jacket. So MMPD sent down their Vice Unit as well? If so, that means that-

"Dexter!" I hear Eliza's soft voice call from off to the side. I turn to meet her eyes and notice she is sitting all alone at a completely unoccupied bench. Who would be so unkind to leave such a fair damsel all alone?

"Hail, fair lady!" I say jovially, walking towards her, "How fares thee?"

"Quite well, actually," Eliza mimics a British accent and pulls me down to sit next to her. She runs her hand up and down my back in a slightly sensuous manner. Dark, deadly Dexter would have no time for such trivialities, but Cancer-Man Dexter, Dexter without a cause finds himself enjoying it, which seems to dismay my shadow half. I don't blame them, this pedestrian action should have no effect on me.

"How are you?" She asks, still rubbing my back.

"Quite well, actually," I reply with a mischievous grin, causing Eliza to smile her own small, dangerous smile as well and peck me on the lips:

"That's fantastic to hear," the brunette says into my ear, "Because I want you to meet my parents."

And suddenly, I drop the ball. How could Eliza do this to me? Our relationship was going _so_ perfectly, she even got past the part that _no other _woman has conquered yet: Sex. She stayed, even where everyone else saw something defective in me, something morally deranged in my sexual mannerisms. And now, she has to ruin it by bringing her _parents_ into the equation?

Parents are the worst thing for a dating monster like me. They are worse than pets because they can almost smell the freakishness that emanates from me, the difference being that they can voice their disdain in words, whereas Fido can only bark a few times before someone tells him to shut up.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Eliza," I say, the very idea makes my insides flare and I cough lightly a few times.

She pouts in response, "Why not?"

"Well, what if they don't like me?" I ask. It's a valid question; people don't like other people for dumb reasons quite often. However, Eliza makes it sound like I have just asked if the Pope is a Jew. She opens her mouth to speak, but then clamps it shut; has she really not thought of this? I would think this is the first place any guy would go during this sort of conversation, but Eliza seems to regain her bearings and chastises me lightly:

"Come on, Dexter-_dummkopf_," Eliza only uses German, her mother's native language, when words can't express just how spectacularly stupid I am being, "Why would my parents hate you? They'll love you, I'd bet on it."

Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Ms. Taggart, but my track record says you are about to lose some shinies.

"Are you sure? I mean, they won't strangle me with Schnitzel if I don't impress?"

Eliza gives me a pointed look, "That's racist, Dex," she admonishes politely. "Besides, we may be _eating _Schnitzel, but no strangling unless it gets stuck down your fat gullet."

"Yes," I give her a shark-like grin, "Talk _dirty_ to me!"

"Oh, you!" She pushes me lightly and grins along with me before continuing: "So, is that a yes?"

I wish it could be a no, but I doubt Eliza would take kindly to that answer, so I simply say "Of course" and she gives me a great, big hug as Debs voice cuts across our lovey-dovey session:

"Dex! Dad got the BCPD to fuck off, let's get back at it." She says, walking up to us. "Masuka says that a tech just called him, they got the bullet test back and it's waiting on his desk. Make sure to remind that asshole that he's got it."

"Okay," I say, before standing up far too quickly for my chemotherapy-addled body and feel another coughing fit about to come upon me. I turn, scrabbling around the table which houses the bench on which Eliza and I were sitting, trying to find the napkin dispenser. I find it, and quickly rip it out and bring it to my mouth as the first wave of spasmodic coughs wreak havoc on my lungs.

There is a wet squelch sound that comes with far too many of the coughs to keep either brunette from looking too unconcerned with me. They both grimace as I whoop slight bits of phlegm, but mostly blood into the napkin. However, they don't see the blood, which I guess is a positive, even if my mouth tastes like iron now.

But, of course, being a serial killer, I assume I don't have very good karma, which is the only way I can tease out the logic behind Debs's next request:

"Give me that," She says, pointing at the napkin. Ah, I've seen this before. It's the Morgan Method, how both Harry and Debs manage to get others to do their bidding. First comes announcement of desire, as you saw before.

I clutch the napkin to my chest protectively, "You're asking me for a napkin I coughed all over. You know, you could just ask for an autograph."

Then comes exasperation, "Fuck you, Dexter, I am _not_ in the mood for your goddamn games!"

"Well, I don't want you looking at my napkin," I reply petulantly, like a child.

Third, angry repetition with honorifics, "Dexter Moser, give that napkin to me."

And finally, the _coup-de-grace_, Debs levels a Harry-stare at me in the most unnerving way she can muster. And might I say, it does work very well, but that might also be coupled with the fact that Eliza stands beside her, looking every bit as worried as my 'best friend' looks angry. And for some reason unbeknownst to my supercomputer of a brain, I hand the napkin to the taller brunette; Debra takes one look inside the folded napkin and her lip curls in disgust.

"What. The _fuck_. Is this?" The officer asks, breaking her sentence into slow, nearly equal parts, as if she were talking to someone exceptionally slow.

"Blood," I supply nonchalantly.

"Blood? Fucking surprise there, innit?" She asks sarcastically, before punching me in the shoulder. "I thought the doctor said you were alright."

I heave a sigh, "I _am_ alright, the infection's just taking longer than it should to go away."

"Oh yeah, because that's exactly what the _blood_ is saying, isn't it?"

"Being snippy won't change anything, Debra," I use her full name to convey just how monumentally annoyed with her I am, which stops the brunette cold, "it's just taking longer than usual. A few more weeks, and I'll be fine."

"Maybe you should go see the doctor again," Eliza suggests hopefully, while Debs still tries to work her mouth, clearly unsure of what to say.

"If I did, I wouldn't be Dexter-_dummkopf_." Apparently the cuteness of such a statement leaves neither Debs nor Eliza amused.

And so, I find myself in front of a body with sheeting all over her. It's a prostitute, as we all expected. But we're all in for a shock as Batista lifts up the sheet to reveal a frozen mass of cut-up body parts.

"Holy shit," Batista mutters, "Looks like how Guerrero's niece was cut up."

"Not exactly the same," Doakes materializes out of nowhere to let out that low, menacing growl of his, "cuts are different."

No blood. Again. How could this happen _again_? Just a cold piece of meat. It's even more impressive than Guerrero murders, he didn't even use embalming fluid. Just cell crystallization. I don't know if it's the same guy, there are some marked differences between the Guerrero murder and this homicide, but if it is, he's certainly stepping his game up. The air grows thicker around me and I can feel my breathing can become more shallow. Cut up like that, this woman. It's... familiar.

And it feels good; like seeing this dead, bloodless woman has caused my brain to release endorphins, like a cocaine high. I feel good. The world slows down, the body seems to take up all the space in my line of sight; only Debs remains the one person I can see out the corner of my eye.

"Dexter?" I am brought back to the real world because of Batista's addressing me, "What do you think?" He asks me.

I nod, "Doakes is right," I say, "Different method of exsanguination, cuts are different parts of the body, and-" I pause to sniff the air, "no embalming fluid. That's not to say it isn't the same guy, it's just... different, is all."

"Different?" Eliza asks, interest perked, "different how?"

I am about to begin to speak when Doakes cuts across me in a rather harsh tone, "I'm sorry," he begins, "but who the fuck are you again?"

"Eliza Taggart," the perky brunette replies with a heartwarming grin, "Vice's Forensic Scientist."

"And you're here, why?" He asks.

"Was called to a crime scene," she replies nonchalantly, giving the Detective her own sort of middle finger. "I'm giving my opinion."

Did I mention that I might be in love with this woman right now?

"Oh, and I'm Dexter's girlfriend," okay, that little snippet of information I could've done without. Doakes licks his chops in a predatory manner:

"Moser's, you say?" He gives me a sideways glance before nodding and walking towards me, mouthing: '_Nice work, psycho_' in a totally non-confrontational manner.

Eliza raises a questioning eyebrow, "That was bizarre," she says as the Detective stalks off, apparently assuming that he's gotten a good grasp of crime scene by saying the cuts are different and questioning my 'girlfriend'.

"That guy's bizarre." Masuka says with a grin.

"So, anyways, before that enlightening interrogation," I start, "we were at how the crime scene is different. Well. If you look at the cuts on Amy Guerrero, you can see that the killer didn't take too much care as to where he was slicing. This... this is ordered. Neat. This guy knew exactly where he wanted to cut and why."

"Dexter's right," Batista agrees, "We've had two murders along the Tamiami Trail that fit more in line with the killer's M.O. than the guy who chopped up Guerrero's daughter. Still, the similarities..."

"Striking." I say simply, completely unaware of the stupid grin on my face.

* * *

><p>If beauty is in the details, Miami Metro's Homicide Department's newest case's perpetrator is the Picasso of murder. Of course, no one but maybe Batista might share my interest in Blood Spatter, but how much <em>work<em> these cuts must have taken! Unbelievable. Just hours of silence, periodically disturbed by the sound of a bone saw... what I _wouldn't_ give to be that man. But, unfortunately, I am not that man. And because of him, I have been given absolutely nothing to do. And when I am given absolutely _nothing_ to do but wait for AFIS to spit out a name off the fingerprints on the bullet that killed Rose Guerrero, I realize that beauty is what can be done whilst involving the least amount of people. Without blood, there is no need for Dweeby Dexter to get involved in the case, especially because he has his own to worry about.

But that doesn't mean he can't be afforded his own free time because of this 'Tamiami Slasher', as the press has now taken to calling the man, and his ability to make hooker cold-cuts. And because of that, I sit at my computer, ignoring that nameless dread that came from Rose's murder and the sheer exhilaration that I felt when I saw that dead woman whilst aimlessly searching through old cold cases on my laptop to see if anyone might present a good candidate for Dexter's table.

I stop searching for a moment to take a look outside the Blood Lab I am currently occupying and see all sorts of cops, uniformed and otherwise, running around frantically with reports and bullet analyses and fear that the next moment might be their last. Paranoia appears to be the natural state of humankind, and it is a feeling that I pride myself on being free of for the most part. But, as of late, paranoia has seemed to take a hold of me like it has the other shadows running on towards oblivion.

Now, normally I don't believe that there is a man around every corner waiting with his knives and bags of chemicals to drown me in, but ever since these Guerrero murders started up, along with the cancer, I haven't exactly been feeling great. Everything about these two cases seem familiar, as if the killer is trying to warn me, specifically _me_, of something in my past, despite that I have taken careful steps to make sure no one ever finds the professional need to question Dexter Moser's past. Yet, still, there is a part of me that cannot shake that feeling. That someone, somewhere, is waiting for special, wonderful me. Waiting to do _something_. A part of me wonders if this is what the key to the human puzzle is, being trapped in a constant state of fear, always wondering if the boogeyman is right behind us and we just don't know, always feeling that we are already carrion and invisible vultures hang right above us, waiting to swoop in. I assume that this is what years of murder does to a person, it makes us more cautious, and in the process, much more paranoid. It's a bad job, really, and I don't recommend it unless you _really_ have to, because no one wins in this game, the difference between us and our victims is that we die more slowly.

And now I'm depressing myself. Fantastic.

I flip through a photo of a potential rapist/murderer with a pretty rocking mohawk. No. Too conspicuous. Someone will notice this guy's gone missing too soon.

I suppose I'm the very picture of existentialist angst right about now, literally feeling dread everywhere I go, and I can't explain why. Even the Passenger ceases to speak to me, I just feel a nervous skittishness that normally tells me to run, run as far away as possible. Nothing settles the feeling that those crime scenes were intended to for my eyes, not even looking for potential tablemates. Still, it does not surmount my all-consuming feeling of complete wonderment in the presence of his crime scenes. I want to understand why these murders looks so similar; I want to understand _him_.

And it doesn't help that someone is trying to sneak up on me, a microcosm of how my life is going right now. I quickly, albeit casually, switch windows to a blood report that needs printing:

"Debs," I say, "You're not very good at sneaking up on people."

I hear her soft response, "How did you know it was me?"

The Passenger told me, "I can see your reflection on the screen." I choose to say instead, watching as Debra shrugs and walks up behind me with a telltale grin on her face; she stops right before the chair I am sitting in as I press 'print', waiting for the papers to spit out the printer on the other table.

Then, something strange happens: she hugs me. Around the throat, placing her head onto my shoulder.

Of course, she is doing this to exasperate me. But, being a mostly emotionless android of a man, I usually do not know how to respond in these situations the way that someone like Brian would; I only have the Passenger for guidance. It rears its head, like an overprotective mother, telling me to reach for the box-cutter in my pocket and disentangle myself from the brunette's grip. However, I know she does not intend to strangle me, so I let my Ego override my Id and politely ignore her attempts to annoy me.

"What'cha doing?" She asks, trying very hard not to sound intrusive, I assume.

"Blood work," I reply nonchalantly.

"Oh, okay," she says, completely uninterested by my fascination with blood reports, "Dad's dropped his name as a favor to get to speed up on the Prints, with luck, we should get a suspect by the end of the day." She states in a happy manner that is uncharacteristic of Post-Vice Debra Morgan.

"And that's got you on a sugar rush, why?"

She breathes out heavily, "Because, _brother of mine_," Debs smiles as she mocks the playfully mechanical way that Brian and I greet one another, "We've got one of these fuckers nailed. The other one's bound to come out of the woodwork once we question the first prick. So, yeah, I'm the happiest fucking girl in the state of Florida."

"If the guy can even be found, that is," I try to curb the Officer's enthusiasm, but she just grips all the more tightly and lets out a wry smile, "if he's got any brains, he'll have gotten out of Dodge by now."

"Well, shit, Dexter; you told me yourself a few years back that Police Work is twenty percent brains, eighty percent luck, so let's hope the eighty percent wins out, yeah?"

Debra Morgan, the paragon of optimism. Sometimes its useful for when Dee is feeling down and she needs another girl to talk to her, but for the most part, it makes me want to punch her until she understands that the eighty percent rarely wins out.

"I'm also twenty percent human, eighty percent _medianoche_ sandwich; you don't see anyone confusing me for a porkchop." I supply with an air of disinterest as I print out the paper.

"Really?" Debs asks in a sarcastic manner, "I though for sure I'd eaten a part of your leg before."

"Watch what you're suggesting, girlie," I continue to banter; Debs has the decency to blush upon realizing what she has suggested. "It's a little too saucy for me." I finish.

"Shit, Dex," she says, looking at her watch, "We have to go."

Go where? I've been given absolutely nothing to do, why would I be going anywhere?

"Go where?" I voice my concerns quite aptly.

"Guerrero's woken up; Dad wants us to head to the hospital and clear him, see if we can get any info off him."

But I don't want to. I look up into Debs's pleading eyes and realize I have to because this is my case and this is a new development... maybe I really should've considered Forensics over Detective work. I put the printed blood work-up into the file labeled 'De Lacey Homicide - Blood Report' and stand up as Debs lets go of my throat.

"Lead the way, Debbie," I quip spryly; Debra nods and leads me towards the elevators.

* * *

><p>The University of Miami's Hospital is perhaps Florida's top medical facility. Of course, I suppose I speak with some form of bias, considering I get my chemotherapy sessions done here and Brian is an attending in the Medical ICU, and sometimes does Hospice work. But, still, in my not-so-humble opinion, it is one of the best in the state, if not the best hospital.<p>

That, however, does not change the fact that I _hate_ hospitals. With a passion. In some ways, I must be a masochist, considering that I had planned on becoming a doctor and now I spend all my days looking at dead people and their blood. There's something about working in a hospital, however, that I find soothing. It's the same as with blood, ordering it, tagging it, analyzing it- it all makes me feel good. I guess, had I been a slightly more normal person, something about curing illnesses, ordering them, analyzing them would've called out to me as well.

But blood is blood, I am a detective, and I can't change that.

"Fancy meeting you here, brother," Brian says, wearing a white coat that makes him look especially dweebish, "I assume you are enjoying swinging your big-boy badge around?"

"Only as a Moser could," I respond deftly.

"Fantastic," my brother grins before turning to Debs, "And the Morgan! How_ lucky_ for me to see you again!"

"Well, I wouldn't call it lucky. You know Guerrero is part of our investigation." Debra responds, using the stony 'cop face' that her father has mastered so well.

"Was I supposed to know that?" Brian asks, "Now let us examine that claim for a moment-" I bop the elder man on the head with my badge:

"Big-boy badge says 'take us to Guerrero'." I say; Brian grimaces:

"Whatever you say, brother," Brian leads us to Room 308, where the man lays resting.

Guerrero does not appear to be in anywhere near tip-top shape. In fact, he looks like he's died, but when I sit next to him, he stirs and looks at me: "Ah," He says, "Detective Moser, isn't it?"

I nod, "Mr. Guerrero," I respond respectfully.

"I apologize for not being in a presentable state, but, with the conditions of our visit, I hope you will find that oversight... permissible." He says, indicating his pale and sickly form, draped over with a hospital gown.

"Naturally," I reply without missing a beat, "We just have a few questions and we'll let you rest."

"We?" He asks, before looking to my side to see Debs sitting there rather uncomfortably, "Oh. Your partner?" He asks.

"Officer Morgan," Debra introduces herself, which sounds uncharacteristically robotic, coming from her.

"Morgan?" The Drug Lord asks, "Not Lieutenant Harry Morgan's daughter?"

Now the brunette looks incredibly uncomfortable, "Yes," she says after a long pause.

I find it interesting to watch two people who have such vastly different ideologies and perspectives of the world they live in speak. Guerrero is a dishonest man living a dishonest life, and that's what allows him to pull off the manufactured caring father facade so well; Debra, on the other hand, is an honest woman through and through, which leads, understandably, to feelings of dissonance when placed in situations that require tact. I naturally tend to gravitate towards Guerrero's line of thinking, but that does not stop me from appreciating the sheer honesty that radiates off the woman next to me.

Is it weird to say that if I were a real human, I'd want to be like Debs?

In any case, there's no use in wanting; I am a Guerrero and not a Morgan in spirit. Pinocchio is not a real boy. Never will be. Wishing otherwise gets me nowhere.

"He has a beautiful daughter," the man says in a respectful way, but I am not sure if he is being sincere.

Debs flushes; she does not like compliments, "Thank you," she continues to speak in that awkward, mechanical tone of voice.

"Well, Detective, what," he pauses to cough a few times, and I myself feel a few coughs coming on, "would you like to know?"

"We'd like to ask if you saw one or two men," Debs takes the first question, and I am only too happy to let her question the men as I bend over to take a few quick coughs, which does nothing to assuage that burning feeling in my chest.

"Two," the crippled man says after a moment of contemplation, "One is a common hitman. The other, he was something different."

"Different?" I ask, "Different how?"

"Tell me, Detective," he says suddenly, as if he isn't paying attention to any certain conversation that we've been having, "have you ever been in love?"

"In love?" I question, wondering where that thought had come from, "No, I don't think I have."

"Not at all? Not even in the slightest?"

I nod, "I'm not..." I sneak a glance at Debs, who still looks incredibly uncomfortable, but her discomfort is covered by interest in _my _discomfort, "-Maybe I've been in love. Once. Years ago."

"Where is she now?"

I sigh, "Somewhere," I reply, "Somewhere I can't go. I don't know where she is, these days."

"Ah," he says, seeming to understand that I am not comfortable talking about these things with Debra in the room, "I think I would appreciate our discussion more in solitude."

I nod to Debs, and she stands, clearly not wanting to leave, but, bless her soul, she does. I watch as she opens the door and stands outside it, like a vigilant guardian. The man seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness. Brian said he's stable for now, but he's also suffered some massive trauma, and it is expected he'd ramble a bit, but what's this about?

"So... where is she really?" He asks in between a fit of coughing.

I don't want to tell him; it would relinquish control, and Harry once told me something about control: The moment you make one minor misstep, once you lose control just a little bit, you lose everything. I like control; I need control. It's what allows me to function as a perfectly manufactured human being, and I am not ready to give up that control to a overglorified cocaine pusher.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Guerrero asks. Some people say that when one is close to death, they become the most discerning they've ever been. Maybe it's true for Guerrero also. But it doesn't matter, I am only reduced to dumbly nodding.

"You know," he begins, "I lied to my wife all the time. And I lied to my daughter. I thought that by keeping secrets from them, I could keep them happy. But I was wrong. Don't lie to the people who love you, don't keep secrets from them. I know that sounds simple, but-" he's rambling, there's no way Guerrero would say all this in a sane state of mind, but somehow, I feel like he really is speaking to me. "-it's not. You have to keep the people who care for you close, because otherwise you'll lose them, and..."

"And?"

"You die." He says simply, before he switches his train of thought again, "Find them both and kill them. Cut them down like dogs. They are the worst that humanity has to offer. Women and children," Guerrero spits in disdain, "They deserve justice. Make them pay. Especially the second one. He is not human at all."

"Then what is he?"

"Something... more."

A slow smile spreads across my face.

* * *

><p>I lounge around my apartment in a state of disorientation. I sit there, on the couch, watching the TV as a sense of vertigo comes over me. And it's a very strange feeling. Like the world is always slightly askew. Like we are on a sinking ship, and we'd better get off the wreck before we drown. Who is this man that he can evoke something so foreign, something so alien to Dexter Moser's world? Fear. I do not feel it. I never have, even when half-sick with the thrill of cutting down a body, even when the police surround me on all sides.<p>

There's nothing to fear. And yet, this feeling of vertigo is all-consuming, all-pervasive; my mind has been thoroughly caught in its own riot of dread. And I can't for the life of me figure out why. And that's why I can't wait much longer until AFIS spits out a name, because all I will think about are these crime scenes until I know for sure. I need to know for sure.

It's an obsession, I know. And obsessions are unhealthy for someone like me. And I know that this is probably coincidence, and I am looking into this too deeply, but once I can prove it, I can go back to being mundane Dexter.

So I find myself driving to back to the MMPD department headquarters in the dead of night and pull into an empty space in the parking lot. The building is still illuminated with people working on this new Tamiami Slasher case, so I should be able to drop in and review the Forensics files until AFIS gives us the ID of the prints on the bullet.

"Working late, Dex?" Batista asks as I walk into the Homicide HQ.

"Something like that," I respond as the elder man nods and gets up to refill his coffee.

I quickly walk into my office, slinking behind Harry and Debs, who are working together 'off the clock' on the Tamiami Slasher, and review the finer points of the case, but there isn't anything that I can find. And after an hour, all I find is that it's going to be difficult to go to sleep tonight, and that there are some similarities, but it all could be coincidence.

But the Passenger is not satisfied by that answer; it tells me to be watchful, to be vigilant, to-

"Dex? You still here?" Masuka asks, holding a file.

"Is that-?" I interrogate, completely ignoring his question. The Asian man nods with a grin:

"Your guy's supposed to be a man by the name of Ernesto Ramos. Was believed to be a Santería hitman; he's a slippery fuck."

I grab the file out of his hands, turning the page to see a well-built Latino man staring back at me. This isn't my guy, I can tell by the Dark Passenger's disappointed murmurs, but maybe he can _lead _me to my guy.

"Still," I find myself replying whilst on autopilot, "Not slippery enough to avoid this."

"It's good science, brother," Masuka quips lightly, "There isn't anyone in the world that can outrun good science."

I thank the Forensic Scientist, still on autopilot, and walk out of my office and straight to Debs and Harry:

"AFIS got our guy," I say, both of them look up, surprised, "When are do you want us to go pick him up?"

Harry blinks, "I didn't know you were still here, Dex."

"I wasn't, I went home but I realized I left some blood work back here so I came back. Masuka just dropped this off a few minutes ago. Our perp's a guy named Ernesto Ramos, supposedly a Santería Hitman, but he's been able to set himself up as a 'self-made man'."

Debs looks absolutely stoked and her father notices, "Go." He says, and that's all we need.

* * *

><p>Of course, however, that's not all he said. And that is why Debs and I sit in my car at one in the morning on Collins Avenue, rubbing our eyes tiredly and lounging around as we wait for the Unis to arrive on scene. Well, only Debra lounges, having cited leg pain so that she could turn in her seat, splay her legs across the gear lever, my lap, and out the window of the door to lie back and sleep. I, on the other hand, try valiantly to stay awake, rubbing my eyes and slapping my cheeks to keep myself in the land of the living, to the point were I have to fool my own brain into thinking I am out stalking a new victim so I can slip into Dark Dexter mode and ward off the sandman.<p>

"You should stop trying so hard," Debs says, shifting slightly, her eyes still closed, "You aren't keeping yourself awake, you're just making yourself more sleepy."

We turn to her, completely aware of our surroundings now, "I'm fine, Deb." We say.

The brunette peeks one eye open and scoffs lightly, "If you say so." She says. "God, why the fuck are they so_ late_?" We rest our elbows on Debs's shins and hold our head in anticipation. "Dex, that's uncomfortable," Debra grimaces, shifting ever so slightly. She puts on her very best Harry-glare when I look back at her blankly:

"Well, no one asked you to put your legs here," I say as she tries to sit up unsuccessfully, and grabs my hands to right herself.

"Will you let me have them back?" She asks playfully.

"Why, of course; they are your's, after all, right?"

Before the Officer can answer, a large van pulls out next to us, four armored Unis step out of the back and Debs is suddenly in a rush to sit prim and proper in her seat.

"You should stop trying so hard," I mock her earlier statement, and the brunette flashes me a delicately formed middle finger in response before she exits the car. She lightly, and I stress lightly, admonishes one of the Unis she knows for his tardiness, to which the man actually apologizes; maybe Debs's supermodel looks can be utilized from time-to-time.

Suddenly I feel very woozy and experience that same sense of vertigo that occurred in my apartment, and nearly feel myself falling. I grasp for anything and end up slapping the roof of my car rather deftly to keep balance. Breathe in, breathe out, calm yourself.

"Dex, are you okay?" Debs asks, looking rather worried. I would be touched if I _could be_ touched.

We prep lightly for about five minutes before we enter the lobby of a newly-constructed high-rise condo, which is the last known address of Ernesto Ramos. I am, on a few occasions, surprised by the lives our marks lead, but the opulence of Ramos's living leaves me with a slightly bitter taste in my mouth. There are things far more important in the world than money, or a penthouse on Miami Beach, but this man does not seem to know that real killers do.

And it disappoints me. One can only hope his partner is a little more interesting.

We pass by a few gentlemanly looking blokes on the way to the receptionist's desk at the other end of the white marble lobby; Deb mouths a strangled 'Wow' at the sheer luxuriousness of the building and the Unis look a little lost. A man stands at the elevator with a stack of DVDs. What a man is doing with a stack of DVDs at one in the morning is anyone's guess, but I think if I were in the mood to disclose it, my interpretation might be pretty close to accurate.

The elevator dings open behind me as we begin to speak to the receptionist:

"Uhm," she begins uncertainly, "how can I help you, sir?"

"Detective Moser from Miami Metro Homicide; these are Officers Morgan, Rose, Royo, and Dussler. We're looking for a man by the name of Ernesto Ramos in connection with a murder case." Suddenly the woman blanches and stares past me.

There is the unmistakable sound of someone being pushed and a bunch of DVDs clattering to the floor. In a moment, we turn back to see the figure of Ernesto Ramos making a run for the doors and out into the midnight traffic of Miami Beach.

Soon enough, we are chasing him down Collins Avenue. Perhaps Dexter before Cancer would have very little trouble taking down Ramos, but I have been crippled by the disease, and in my debilitated state, I must pace myself and run alongside Debs. And my chest still burns. I try to speed up and begin to catch up towards the hit man, but it feels like pins and needles are being stuck to my legs. It feels like my bones are shattering all around me and I feel blackness creeping around my periphery.

But still, I run. I must make sure. Dexter can never be too cautious about the company he keeps.

Finally I outpace Debs and catch up to Ramos, but at this point I feel so weak that the most I can muster is a feeble bear hug around the burly man, which is, surprisingly, enough to knock him to the ground. Debs catches up behind me with her handcuffs prepared and takes over for me.

I stand off to the side, trying to soothe my burning insides and shattered frame when that vertigo returns full-force and I feel myself fall to the ground, darkness encroaching on everything; the last thing I hear is Debs voice call out "Dex!" distantly.

* * *

><p>I used to love to hunt with Harry. He always knew, in some way, that I was different from the rest of the kids he knew. In fact, I think that's one of the reasons why Harry took me on as his own personal mission from God to help me. The thing is, Harry loves Debra like a daughter, but he respected me enough that we treat each other as equals. He taught me how to blend in with others because it feels, in some ways, that Harry had seen some of himself within me. Naturally, he is stronger than I am; he channeled whatever pain it was that he felt into a career. It's not healthy, I know, as he constantly seems to regret never being able to spend time with his daughter, but it is healthier than what I do.<p>

A long time ago when I was a teenager, while hunting, Harry told me to try and keep control. He told me there are so many things in the world that I couldn't control, but the one thing I could control was myself. And if I couldn't master that, then, well, what was the point of life at all?

It was a lesson I took to heart. I don't know why Harry decided to impart that fortune-cookie advice to me, but it set the groundwork for who I was to be for next fifteen years.

"Someday, you might find people you don't want to keep secrets from, and then, tell them. About you, about how you feel. But until then, you keep that control to yourself."

Is there anyone I want to tell? About me? About how I feel?

* * *

><p>The first sensation that comes back to me is touch. I feel comfortable, as if I am not laying on the hard ground. Then comes smells. All sorts of aromas, mostly of foods from nearby restaurants, make my mouth water. And from that comes taste. And finally, with the opening of my eyes, there comes sight.<p>

And what a sight it is! Debra's face looms above me, and I find the worry it conveys to be quite flattering. I shift, realizing I've somehow been moved to the backseat of my car and am now resting on my best friend's lap. Her eyes widen in recognition:

"Dex!" She says, almost breathlessly, "What... what's wrong with you?"

And that sense of falling, that overwhelming sense of vertigo returns. Debs cradles my head in her arms; they're surprisingly strong. Her great, big brown eyes rove around my face, searching for any hint of emotion. If there was anyone I wanted to tell the truth, if there was anyone who deserved to turn me in, to spit on me, to kill me, it's her. She _deserves_ to be the one I tell the truth. She's earned it.

And so tell her the truth:

"I have cancer."

Her arms slacken.

* * *

><p>"Are you ready to tell us about yourself?" The director of the cancer group nods my way.<p>

"My name is Dexter Moser," I say, noticing the slight widening of Lila's eyes. "I have AML, or Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The prognosis looks good, but it's still testing me."

"Testing you?" The director asks, "Testing you how?"

"My family, my friends."

"Ah."

But the truth is is that I made the right decision. Debra does not understand everything yet, but she is content with me having told her the truth, which apparently counts for something. But, it's scary as well.

"Have you kept your family and friends at a distance all your life, Dexter?"

"You could say that."

"So, then, telling them the truth must be extremely frightening."

You'd be right again. I've opened back the tent flap a tiny bit for Debs to peak through, and yes, it scares the hell out of me. But there's this sense of vertigo, like we're all falling anyways, and it's best to grab onto someone to fall with.

Because we're all falling. But to what, is the question.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>This is the rewrite of Chapter four. Drop me a line or two in the reviews on whether you thought this was a suitable replacement.


	5. On the Wire

**Summary: **Harry is sent out of town for a convention, leaving LaGuerta as acting Lieutenant. Lila and Dexter have a conversation while Dexter feels lethargic and unable to pursue his 'hobby'. Debra calls Dexter over to the next crime scene of the newly-named Tamiami Slasher; LaGuerta is adamant in her belief that this is the same killer who destroyed the Guerrero family, but Debra has different ideas.

Quick Note: To Asphodel, '_me cago en diez_' is a slang term used by Cubans and Puerto Ricans, especially in Miami, that means 'I shit on ten'. It doesn't really mean much in English, and it is a corruption of '_me cago en dios_', but it's a saying that really is there to express frustration, and they possibly say 'diez' rather than 'dios' to keep from dishonoring God. Thanks for the heads up, though! I'll make sure to clarify on some of the more confusing slang as we go on.

Also, I take absolutely zero credit for any of the poems mentioned in this chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Down on the Upside<strong>

* * *

><p><em>"The greatest way to live with honor in this world is to be what we pretend to be."<em>

-Socrates

* * *

><p><strong>'On the Wire'<strong>

* * *

><p>Sleep does not come to me easily, anymore. I find myself staring off into the darkness far too often. Dexter before Cancer could sleep the night away with minimal trouble. Now I can barely stay asleep for more than a few hours at a time.<p>

I yawn loudly, causing Eliza to shift in my arms and let out a slight gust of air into the crook of my neck.

Tomorrow is my day off, a prospect that used to get me excited for seeking out my next mark. But now, the insomnia, Eliza, sickness; all of it combines into a slothful lethargy that I can't quite break through. And life mocks me by throwing sleep all around me. Even the Passenger is snoring. Everyone is sleeping but me. And all of them are still more awake than I am.

But soon, I will have to wake up with Eliza and pretend that I spent the night dreaming like her. And that's a prospect I do not see changing in the future.

* * *

><p>Everyone finds it so easy to play the part.<p>

They can pass through phases of love, humanity, bliss, monstrosity, all with seamless ease. But I can't. I have been dialed to that eternal setting: 'Monster'. But, I often wonder if that's better than being a normal 'human'. I think it makes me less scary, less... toxic. What makes me much less scary than everyone else is that I often have to think about what I pretend to be. Whether it is the best friend and surrogate father to Debra, the best brother to Brian, the best son to Harry and my mother, or the best uncle to Cody and Astor; I must truly get in touch with who I wish to pretend to be today. Others have it so easy, and I don't. That's why they're scarier than I could ever hope to be; because Dexter the monster has to really believe who he says he is.

Today, is the beach. With Eliza, Brian, Rita, and the kids. So, today, I'm not a monster; I'm just...Dexter: a sand monster.

"The mummy's gonna get you!" I yell out playfully, breaking through the layers of sand Astor and Cody have piled atop me, out from the darkness and into the bright Miami sun-well, not the sun exactly, but the shade from the beach umbrella that hangs over Eliza, Rita and I. Astor squeals slightly and runs off as I make my way towards her; Cody giggles and bolts in the other direction.

For a minute, I wonder what it would be like running around the beach after these two, pistol in hand, firing away at every man, woman, and child. Blood would spurt out all over the sand and leave such a glorious mess. They'd lie there like dead cattle. Somehow, that makes me feel better. But Dexter must be the sand monster today, there is no room for the Dark Passenger-no, no room at all, not for a long while yet.

I chase after them for a full minute, repeating the 'yaw' noises I suspect most reanimated, 3,000 year-old Egyptian men like to make. Finally, the two children tire and begin to sit close to Brian, who tells them stories about a fictional man named 'Dexter Moser', loosely based of some dumb police prick, who left his small corner of the world in South Florida and went out to see the world. Today, it's how Dexter had a voyage with his Cuban guide, Angel, to a lost city of gold somewhere in Bolivia.

Ha. If only my _real_ adventures were that grand. Or as nominally racist.

"Thank you for being here, Dexter," Rita gushes, "it's just that the... the-the kids-they love you. It's unbelievable how much they love their Uncle Dex. I was actually surprised-not that I think you're-oh, damn."

Well, if you're surprised, Rita, that makes two of us. But, I calm the woman enough so she doesn't make a fool out of herself stammering:

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I reply, smiling at her, before turning to Eliza, who gives me a very soft smile, while sitting over a very large puzzle.

"Kids," Rita asks, once Brian finishes the story, saying the Dexter found the city of gold and mined it and gave it all to charity, "would you like to join Eliza in finishing the puzzle?"

Astor and Cody look at Eliza with a sense of apprehension, but Brian and I egg them on and they sit to a four-hundred piece puzzle of Stonehenge. We work together for an hour or two, trading jokes or stories from work (and school, in Cody and Astor's place). It's only then Rita seems to realize how depressing all of our jobs are: I'm a Detective, Eliza's a Forensic Scientist, Brian's a Doctor doing Hospice work, and Rita herself does something I can only describe as converting numbers from different currencies in record time and analyzing these numbers to find out what's going on with the Stock Market.

Okay, her job's more _dull_ than depressing, but it still makes her wary of us talking about work.

This, of course, is fine by me; I simply concentrate on the puzzle. I like puzzles. They usually come to me easily. There are puzzles everywhere, and they come in all shapes and sizes; Stonehenge, or the killer who is slowly becoming my favorite life spectacle. But they will eventually fall, all puzzles are waiting to be solved, and then what?

What will come next? Me? Will I be Miami Metro's next puzzle to solve?

* * *

><p>"Mr. Moser!" Doctor Kuhlmann calls out jovially, "your appointment, right-" he pauses, looking at me quizzically, "I didn't know you had a girlfriend, Dexter."<p>

I look to my side, and Debs has the decency to blush, "We're not..." she smiles nervously, unsure of where to go next.

"She's a friend," I say; Kuhlmann nods:

"Right this way, Dexter, you know the drill."

In a moment, I find myself sitting down and watching a lead vest-wearing Nurse bustle around me. Debs sits a chair to the side of me, smiling and talking about a movie she wants to see. Then we talk about the last season of _The Wire_, which has become a sort of Dexter/Debra pastime over the past two years, since we started watching it. I tell her that I'll pick up the box set once it comes out and we sit comfortably for a moment, until a thought bubbles up from the spine of my brain, climbing its way up to the forefront:

"Why are you here, Deb?" I ask seriously. She looks confused, so I decide to clarify: "I mean, why do you want to come with me to get some radioactive drugs jammed up my veins?"

Debs punches my right arm, which is unencumbered by wires or needles. It still hurts, though. "I'm here because I'm your friend," she says. "Do I need another reason?"

"I'd have just thought that'd be a little depressing, is all," I reply submissively, not looking forward to be punched again.

"Well, I'm fine, asshole, now let's talk about something else."

* * *

><p>Harry has been sent away, weird as it is, considering there are two very important cases piling up, but Miami Metro's been losing a lot of cops lately and our Lieutenant has been forced to head up the Miami contingent to Baltimore, where there is apparently to be some sort of Police Procedural Convention. Don't ask me what that means; I just do my job.<p>

Unfortunately for Debra, that means that her nemesis, María LaGuerta, has taken on the role of Acting Lieutenant until the real LT returns. This also means that Debs has been given menial tasks for the past two days, and it seems like LaGuerta's quite happy to continue to give her 'retard tasks', as Deb states so eloquently, for the next week, and it has not been doing the poor brunette much good. She grinds her teeth so much and sets her jaw so hard I'm surprised her mandibles haven't unhinged and her teeth haven't been filed down to stubs.

The Lieutenant has been forcing her to talk to her contacts within Vice about the Hooker murder at the whorehouse, despite that nearly everyone else agrees she's been instrumental to the Guerrero case. Debs just thinks it's jealousy; LaGuerta wasn't able to get Ernesto Ramos and both the Morgan and I did-leading, rather fortunately, to more and more cops talking rather glowingly about Harry Morgan's bright young daughter.

Of course, LaGuerta being the old, bitter crone she is, can't stand that someone much younger and much more personable has been flourishing so thoroughly in the MMPD spotlight. She must hate it even more because Debs _despises_ being in the spotlight; she can't stand it. Deb's not quite at bona fide hero status yet, but people are saying that she could go far under Moser's tutelage. Which is a problem. I have toiled long and hard to keep my name out of papers and stay a relative unknown; if people continue to talk about me like I've suddenly started to wear togas and changed my name to Plato, I might have to give my own career a rather deft blow to keep me from becoming _too_ known.

It's one of the occupational hazards of my hobby; I don't get insurance, so I should be careful about my standing. I've come off as an amiable, brilliant, and slightly awkward Detective; I don't need to become Yoda as well. It's funny, Debs looks for every conceivable way to advance her career and I'm struggling to keep myself unknown... which, despite the best efforts of my clever lizard brain, doesn't seem to be working out that well.

But that is distracting from the matter at hand. Thanks to Doakes's legendary interrogation skills, we've gotten a confession from Ramos, but there is no way to get an I.D. on the second guy that Guerrero was talking about.

That's unfortunate, but Ramos did leave us with a valuable tip in exchange for possible reduced jail time: Start with the Russian Mafia. They apparently have such a grudge against the Guerrero enterprises that they were, very privately, of course, committed to destroying the man's fortunes. And when the fortunes of one Miami's most elusive drug-runners came tumbling down, they started to take the credit for it.

We are told to look very seriously for a contact within the Russian Mafia named Dmitri, who is a DEA rat. He, apparently, can tell us more about the hit.

"Dexter," LaGuerta says from her office, while I look over random case files at my 'Detective' desk, "you helped catch Ramos, so I'm putting you on point for this case."

"Goody," I breathe out in response, "who am I working with?"

"Detective Batista, of course," she says, as if questioning why I would've asked who I'd be working with anyways. Debs's face falls as she continues to bury herself in files of old contacts. Batista catches my drift, and Deb's face. Being partners sometimes involves sacrifice, we both know it, and besides, I think he's much more interested by our guy who kills hookers over our apparent hitman.

"With all due respect, Lieutenant," Batista begins, "I think I'm better suited for the Tamiami Slasher Case. Someone else should take up the Guerrero Murders."

LaGuerta raises a delicately plucked and waxed eyebrow, "And who do you have in mind, Angel?" She emphasizes Angel in a Spanish accent, and the Detective swallows for the briefest instant; LaGuerta is not a woman to be taken lightly, both Batista and I know that:

"Cut the cute shit and just let Moser take Morgan," Doakes nearly yells at the acting Lieutenant, obviously irritated by the light tiptoe-ing Batista and I were doing around the subject, "I could use Batista over her anyways, he knows about all the cuts. Morgan'll be able to help out with bringing in that DEA Snitch, and if not that, she'll at least be able to keep an eye on fucking _Wonderbread_ over here."

"Heil Hitler," I mutter sarcastically under my breath, "white power!"

Debs gives me a very severe look, Batista shakes his head with a smile and Masuka breaks into all-out laughter. LaGuerta purses her lips, but lets it go, probably due to the strange way she acts around me; it's ike she's always about to start in on an ancient mating ritual I've never had the good fortune to hear of, otherwise I might be able to protect myself with garlic and a wooden stake.

"Shut the fuck up, Moser," Doakes barks, and for a moment I idly wonder if I narrated my life aloud, but then I assure myself that it must be the neo-Nazi joke I made.

"Affirmative," I say, before running my fingers across my lips, as if to indicate they've been zipped shut.

"No," LaGuerta states sourly, "Moser, you'll be working with Detective Batista in finding that DEA Informant. Doakes, take Morgan and show her the ropes. God knows she needs it." LaGuerta's gaze lingers for a moment on Deb's suddenly rigid form, before she reenters Harry's office. Once again, however, I am forced to watch Debs try to grind her teeth to dust as she contemplates the Sergeant-turned-Lieutenant's last little jab:

"God-_fucking_-dammit!" She says, before getting up and stomping off to the coffee machines. Batista and I shrug at each other. Hey, we tried, didn't we?

* * *

><p>"Agent Nolan?" Batista calls on his cell phone for one of his friends in the DEA, "Hey, it's Batista from homicide-" he pauses as a female voice slurs something on the other line "-<em>que bola<em>?"

A smattering of words bleeds out from Batista's receiver, but I can't quite tell what the woman on the other line is saying. I wait as they go through pleasantries for a few minutes, with Batista inquiring to the health of Agent Nolan's child, and I presume that Nolan asks the Detective how his own daughter is doing, because Batista goes off into a long speech about Auri, his daughter.

Finally they get on topic of this 'Dmitri' character, and suddenly Nolan's very talkative.

"Yes, he's here," Batista replies to a question I couldn't quite hear, "standing right next to me, in fact."

Nolan's voice sounds even more excited now, Batista says 'in an hour', but I don't really know what that means.

"The Russian Mafia, eh?" I ask once Batista gets off the phone, "who'da thunk it?"

"Not me, that's for sure, _socio_," Batista replies, "hey, weren't you involved in trying to take down a Capo in their ranks a few years back?"

"Yeah," I reply, "Back when I first got onto homicide. Big case involving Ricin Poisonings. The DEA got on as well, thought it was tied to a rising Meth Kingpin holed up somewhere in the Everglades. I can scribble down a few guys who owe me favors on this one if you ever find yourself in a tight spot."

"That ever go anywhere?"

"No, not really," I reply, "we got a guy confessing to practically everything while an informant was wearing a wire, but it turned out we just took down a know-nothing pimp carting around hookers and some cheap knock-off product. The real guy disappeared, and the whole operation went down as a complete and total disaster."

"And what was that guy's name?"

"The real perp or the pimp?"

"The perp, _hermano_," Batista replies, "the pimp's probably still locked up in Raiford being someone else's bitch."

"Nicholas Sokolov," I say quietly, "he's gone now. Cut all ties with the Russian Mafia once he found out we were closing in on him. Probably got out of Dodge. Maybe went back to Russia."

Batista levels a knowing grin at me, "Oh yeah?" He asks, "Word on the wire says he's still in Florida."

I suppose I should appear dumbfounded, even surprised, but I don't. All the Russians I've met always were crafty. "Really?" I ask, pretending to be befuddled.

"And you know what's the real kick in pants?" Batista asks; I incline my head, waiting for him to continue, "he may have turned state-side. Under the name Dmitri"

Now I'm legitimately surprised.

"We've got to meet Nolan at Enrique's Café in Southbeach in an hour. She might be able to point us in the right direction."

I laugh. Batista furrows his eyebrows, as if to ask 'what's so funny?'.

"It's just that... we spent an entire year, playing cat-and-mouse. From when I was in patrol to six months into my Homicide Career. I looked at it like a puzzle and I thought I had him. I had the guy on the wire, and I thought I had him in a Raiford Cell as well. And he knew the _whole_ time. It was the one puzzle I could never solve because it seemed like a piece was always missing. Strange how things work out like that sometimes, right?"

Batista nods, "It's fucked-up shit, _compay_."

* * *

><p>We pull into Enrique's Café about half-an-hour later, and Agent Nolan is already waiting for us there. She is a bright blonde woman, pretty and petite for a DEA Agent. I worked with her quite closely when working on the Sokolov Case but I remember she was named Daisy Grant at the time. Her eyes light up in recognition as she sees both Batista and I:<p>

"Angel, Dexter," she greets.

"Daisy," we both greet in return, however my greeting is phrased more in the form of a question.

"Long time no see, Dex," she says jovially, "how's life going?"

"Eh, it's going," I reply with a smile. I look down at her left hand, where a sparkling diamond wedding band sits on her ring finger, she must have gotten married during my later years on Homicide, "how's the married life going?"

"Eh," she mocks lightly, "it's going."

Batista chuckles a little bit and a waiter comes up to us, asking for our orders. After that, it's all business:

"This 'Dmitri' you're looking for-" she drops he voice to a whisper, "-Nicholas Sokolov-is in our Witness Protection Program, and I can't simply authorize you two to bring him into HQ, and he's way out of your jurisdiction. But, I'll try to push it through, maybe if I get the okay from the Captain, then I can give you directions to his place. That's the best I can do for you, and I'm only doing this because I owe both of you favors."

Batista nods as a plate of steaming hot _arroz con pollo_ is set down in front of him. My order of _Gallo Pinto _is set down soon afterwards and plate of _something_ is given to Nolan, but I choose not ask her what that unappetizing plate of slop is.

"So, how're you doing, Dex?" Nolan asks, "Jesus, I haven't talked to you in what, two... three years now?"

"Three," I answer.

"Three, goddamn. Wow." she ruffles what's left of my once luscious head of hair fondly, "Dexter Moser, the cute little green officer is a big, bad Homicide Detective now? And he's working with Angel Batista. Small fucking world. Oh, sorry, I remember you don't like swearing."

"I've learned to deal with it," I respond lightly.

"You should see the Vice girl he had to work with on this case before me," Angel says, "mouth of a motherfucking sailor, I'm telling you."

"Morgan's girl, right?" Nolan quips instantly, "her mouth is legendary in Vice."

I spoon a bit of the beautiful, tasty hot rice into my mouth and stop paying attention to their conversation.

* * *

><p>"Well, aside from catching up, that was a magnificent waste of time," I say snidely to Batista as we walk into the Miami Metro Headquarters.<p>

"At least you got some _Gallo Pinto_ out of it," Batista retorts, "so stop complaining. Besides, now that we've found out who Dmitri is, we have to get LaGuerta to put some pressure on the DEA to get them to release something to us."

"So?" I ask.

"So, we get free reign to work on other cases," he finishes, "like the Tamiami Slasher, you know, the one LaGuerta wants to connect to the Guerrero murders so badly?"

Ah, I gotcha, Angel.

We enter the elevator and head up to the Homicide Department, where Debs and Doakes hunch over a couple of files and converse rather tersely. Apparently he doesn't like her very much either, and Deb, bless her soul, appears to like Doakes even less.

"What are you two doing back here?" LaGuerta questions as Batista and I follow her to her office.

"We've hit a bit of a snag," I say as Batista closes the door to Harry's Office, "turns out our Dmitri is a DEA Witness. Meaning he's got DEA protection. Meaning we're going-"

"Going to get caught up in a lot of federal red tape, I know," LaGuerta responds, putting her hand over her head worriedly, "I'll see if I can get Lieutenant Morgan on the phone, he and Special Agent Dieter go back a long ways. If we can connect it those murders to this guy in any way, I might be able to get you two to pick up him up."

"Until then?" I ask.

"Help Doakes and Morgan on the Tamiami Slasher Case," she snorts, "what a disgusting name. I can't believe the press is paid to sensationalize murder." I am taken aback by LaGuerta's sudden display of a heart. She sensationalizes all of her arrests, combine that with her political astuteness, and that's why she's even Sergeant over Doakes. Her sudden care for a couple of dead prostitutes fazes even me, "Wait, Moser, you stay for a minute."

She's not going to try and rape me in this office, is she? I mean, this where Harry works. I wouldn't be comfortable doing it here. And what would Eliza say? And what would Debs do? Both of them would probably kill me.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Call me Maria, Dexter," she says, putting a hand on my arm. Oh, God. She _is_ going to rape me, isn't she?

"Okay, then. What is it, Maria?"

She smiles a radiant smile, which scares me slightly, "Look," she says, "I know you're friends with Morgan, but can you keep her on a leash?"

"Huh?"

"She's got all these crazy ideas," LaGuerta says, "Like that the killers aren't the same, even though we have no proof that they aren't and the M.O. between the Guerrero Murder and the Tamiami Slasher Murders are similar enough to call the same person-"

"No," I reply, respectfully, of course, "The Guerrero Murder involved embalming fluid, whereas the Slasher Killings are all done by freezing and draining the body of blood, and by the piercings in their legs, I'd suggests he puts them up on meat hooks."

"-Still close enough," LaGuerta assures me; I pretend to look convinced, though I am not, that she is correct, "Just... keep an eye on her is all I'm saying. She's got a good career ahead of her. But that career is in _Vice_, not Homicide; she doesn't belong here."

"You should listen to her, Maria," I appeal on behalf of my friend, "she's smarter than you think."

"I'll be the judge of that," LaGuerta says suddenly, almost sourly, "you're dismissed."

Well, look on the bright side, she didn't try to have sex with me!

I head back to my little office hidden in the nook of the Homicide Department Headquarters. Setting my laptop down there, I look for my next tablemate. Mike Donovan. He's a man of the cloth, he prays, heals, and loves all his congregation. The men, the women, the children...

Especially the children.

It's hard to imagine why no one has caught whiff that five boys from the same church have disappeared, but I suppose if one puts a bland enough face, one can throw off even the hungriest of bloodhounds. After all, I've been doing it five years now. In any case, Mike Donovan is a priest, and for some reason it seems that priests and child molestation just sounds _right_ these days. But that's not enough to satisfy my code; it wouldn't even be enough to satisfy a completely irrational killer. I have to find something...substantial.

I know that Father Donovan has a few bits of property up north in Davie, Fort Lauderdale, and Opa Locka, but I don't know which one he would use, if he uses them at all. One is a meeting hall for Church groups from the Tri-county area; I doubt he bought that place to rape little boys, besides, I don't think the kind residents of the Miami-Dade and Palm Beach Counties would approve of travelling out to Davie to see that. The one in Fort Lauderdale is a warehouse, but it's too out in the open. But the one in Opa Locka really interests me. It's off the beaten path, so to speak, no one for miles-the perfect place for a little lucky boy's unction.

But that will have to wait. I can't go to Opa Locka right now, and I don't see my prospects opening up in the future. Why? Eliza's staying over at my apartment tonight, which obviously means we're going to rape each other a few times before she curls up next to me and we fall asleep.

And without Harry, I doubt I'll be able to get the off-time I need to head up to the cabin to check it out. I'll start simple. Check the house once I get free time, or when Harry gets back and throws me a day off; until then, however, I'll have to bear up and provide an idea for Debs, pleasure for Eliza, and provide a name of the guy behind the Guerrero Murders for everyone I work with.

And Kuhlmann just told me to_ take it easy_!

* * *

><p>I stare out into the night sky. The moon is calling to me. With it's luminous rays and beautiful, mocking face. But I am too lethargic, too weak to really even move. My bones feel brittle at times, and I wonder how long I can keep this facade of perfect health up. It all comes down to which collapses first: the lie, or me.<p>

Eliza shifts in bed next to me, snuggling closer into the crook of my neck and makes slight purring noises that are both creepy and arousing at the same time. All of that combines to a supreme feeling of awkwardness. Her hair smells like roses, a soft, calming smell. It's invigorating, and for some reason, I can see what Ben meant when he said that a woman would do me good.

I close my eyes and wait for dreamless sleep to overtake me.

But it doesn't. Here I am; locked in the contentedness of Eliza's embrace, her soft little button nose tickles my neck as she nuzzles closer, and at the same time, I yearn to run wildly after the moon, slicing through the dark denizens of this wonderfully stupid city. But again, I want to throw a shoe at the moon and tell it to mind its own damn business as I'd snuggle in closer to Eliza.

God. _Snuggling_? What am I becoming?

Dexter Indecisive. Dexter is ambivalent. What am I becoming, indeed?

I close my eyes. And sleep does, mercifully, come.

But it is a fitful sleep once more. I see myself down the Tamiami Trail. _Pick up a hooker. She looks like _her_. We do not care that she has a baby son to feed. Her son is the son of a whore. He is better off never having known his mother. She cries; delightful tears. Sadness. Sadness! We revel in it. A cold place. A cold and narrow place. What do we need? What do we want? A cold and narrow place. So cold. So very cold. Some place mobile some thing very mobile. A truck. A truck! A beautiful Ice Truck! Who could've left it in the parking lot there? Tantalizing. It is Miami. It would be stolen. We will do the honors. Drive, drive, drive! Watch her beg. Kill her Dexter! No, run away; don't come back! Hide! Don't look, don't look; I'm sorry, Dexter. Don't look at me! Close your eyes, son. Close your eyes-_

"Dex," Eliza groans, thumping my chest slightly with her head, "you get that?"

"Huh?" I ask groggily; my head hurts from another one of those idiotic dreams. It's my phone. Ringing very loudly. I check to see who it is. Dispatch. A murder in a place even I can't believe.

* * *

><p>The Bayside Market has always been a popular destination for tourists and Miami natives alike for some good food, and a great view of the Bay, but today it is dead silent. Eerily so. It's almost funny, that someone can turn a normally bustling seaside attraction to a ghost town. Of course, there are people here. There are people crowding around the yellow police tape, trying in vain to pretend they aren't interested by the body somewhere beyond those magical yellow bits of tape.<p>

I flash my badge as a Uniformed Officer lifts up the ticker tape for me to slide comfortably underneath it.

"What've we got?" I ask, sliding up to Debra.

"Another one of these Tamiami Slasher Killings; it was called in last night," she grimaces, "the guy is a fucking _butcher_."

I snort, "He might actually be one; he already strings them up like cattle."

"Jesus, Dex; how can you be so fucking nonchalant?" She asks seriously, snapping on some latex gloves. I level a deadpan look at her:

"I eat my greens," I reply.

She shakes her head, "There you go; you're making another fucking joke." Well, what do you want me to do, Deb?

"Debs, this is just... how I deal with things," that's not entirely true, I usually stab things, but I think Deb would prefer the annoyingly cheerful Dex over the Darkly Dreaming Dex, "what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know," the brunette says, "Act like a fucking human?"

Obviously she's just a little distraught over the killing. It's nothing a few short hours can't fix. But she keeps looking at me in a strange way, like she's about to hit me, or cry. I can't tell which:

"Well, how do I do that, Deb?" I ask exasperatedly. The question sounds annoyed, but it might yield some useful results.

"You need me to tell you that?" She snarls in a surprisingly vicious way, "as if you couldn't figure it out yourself?"

"No, I probably couldn't, emotions aren't my thing," I remark lightly, uncapping my camera and moving towards where Batista hunches over the nicely clean-cut body, and I really want to take a look, but Debs grabs my arm and holds me back:

"I know they aren't, but can't you show me _something_, fucking _anything_? I mean, you haven't shown a _single_ fucking emotion since you told me! I've been wired like_ balls_ and you just sit here and crack jokes all day and I-" Batista finally looks up; exasperated:

"Yo, _socio_, the body's not going to wait all day!"

"I don't see why not?" I joke, "She's clearly not going anywhere."

"Just get over here."

I nod, "Okay," I turn back to Debs, "we'll talk about this later, alright?" She nods:

"It doesn't matter anyways," she says, "You're not gonna listen to me. It's all so fucking useless!" The brunette stomps past me towards the body where she glares at Batista in the same way a shark looks at its prey.

Well. That certainly put a damper on my day. And the sun was so bright just a minute ago! I sigh and move towards the body, where Masuka gives me a grin:

"Lovers' tiff, Moser?" He waggles his eyebrows and Debs shoots him a glare so smoldering I'm surprised he doesn't set on fire.

"Hey, _compay_, check this out," Batista points at the leg of the hooker in front of us, which holds an incomplete cut right along the femoral artery, "What's with this cut?"

"You're wondering about the cut?" I ask facetiously, deciding to point out the body's lack of a head, "I'm wondering what he did with the head? The cut's incomplete, like he started to slice into her but then decided against it."

"A killer stops mid-way through a cut, wonder why?" Doakes asks the other officers on scene, as if he's a teacher and we're all a bunch of very slow preschoolers.

"Well, you could say he was interrupted..." Batista begins, only to be cut off by the African American Detective:

"Good fucking job, there, Angel," he snarks sarcastically, "somebody give him a fucking promotion!"

Masuka watches open-mouthed as Doakes storms away, presumably to scare off some of the reporters that have gathered around the crime scene, trying very hard to push past the Unis. "What crawled up his ass and died?"

"Heard he got some bad news," Batista says, "Dunno about what, but he seems pretty pissed."

"Seems to be the same as ever to me," I shrug nonchalantly, "but I doubt he was interrupted. Everything suggests that this guy has his own place to kill; after all, it's not like you can just freeze and cut away at some girl in the middle of The Bayside Market."

Deb looks puzzled, "Then what does it mean, Dex?"

I wrack my brain for an answer. What would I do in the same situation? This guy is careful. Very careful. So why would he leave such an awful mess right there? Why an incomplete cut? And then, the answer bubbles up from the recesses of Castle Dexter: Why do I sometimes use Garrote Wire, other times a sleeper hold, and other times even Etorphine? Because it's _boring_ to stick to a pattern. And something else even more puzzling comes from the Dark Passenger, whispering it into my mind's ear and out to the world:

"It little profits that an idle king, by this still hearth, among these barren crags..." I begin, smiling widely. Debs looks at me confused, but Batista seems to get where I'm going:

"Matched with an agèd wife, I met and dole unequal laws unto a savage race, that hoard, and sleep, and feed-" he continues for me.

"-And know not me," we finish together, grinning like madmen.

"We can all give you snap applause later, but what does Tennyson have to do with any of this?" Debs asks incredulously.

"Debs," I say, surprised, "I didn't know you liked poetry?"

"You're the one who made me read it, jackass," she replies, "but, about the fucking case, and not your remarkably sad attention to these things?"

"It's _Ulysses_, dear Debra," I say, feeling my smile stretch to Cheshire Cat-like proportions.

"_Go on_," the brunette asks with no small amount of sarcasm in her voice.

"He's bored, Debs. Like Ulysses." I finish.

Debs stares at me, "This looks fucking _bored_ to you?"

"Yep," I reply smartly.

"So, then, what does it mean, Dex?"

"I don't know what it means, Miss Morgan," I reply, still wearing my altogether too-large grin, despite that this body makes me feel very uncomfortable, and I feel the need to get out of here, "I gave you my opinion; it's up to you and Mister Sunshine-" I indicate Doakes, who appears to be enjoying intimidating a stout little Asian reporter, "-over there to tell_ us_ what it means. I didn't even stop for breakfast. Angel, you hungry?"

"Always am,_ socio_," Batista says whilst patting his gut heartily and walks towards me.

Deb snorts and shakes her head, gritting her teeth, "So, what? You're just gonna _leave_ me here?"

"You're welcome to grab some breakfast, too, if you want," I say, which gives the Ofiicer the opportunity to sneer and make her angry fish-face at me again:

"What I want," she pauses, for dramatic effect, I assume, "Is to_ catch_ this guy. You know, like a _real_ cop?"

"And what I want," I pause in the same way she did, "are _eggs_. You know, like a _real_ human?" I quip lightly before I stroll back to my car, leaving a dumbfounded Debra behind.

* * *

><p>"Let's talk about something different tonight," the Cancer Meeting Director, a man with a graying goatee named Donahue, says, "how about how the news has been affecting our families. Why don't you start, Lila?"<p>

Lila stiffens in the chair next to me, as if debating something to say:

"My family..." she begins, unsure of how to continue, "they are still in England. I don't keep in touch with them much anymore."

"Ah. Perhaps you might like to reach out to them?" Donahue questions helpfully.

Lila flashes him a lighthearted look, "I doubt they'd care. They kicked me out of the house when I was seventeen anyways. It's been eleven years. I don't think my parent's would care to hear from their artist daughter with cancer when they have their Doctor daughter to fawn over."

"Huh. I see. How about you, Dexter?"

Suddenly I feel the eyes of the entire room on me. And I don't like it. I'm used to being overlooked, or at least looked at with some sense of disdain; I maintain appearances of being a very down-to-earth, easygoing cop for that exact reason, but here, they all look at me the same way. Like we're equals. But we aren't. It doesn't matter that we have this mass growing inside all of us that unifies everyone in this group-I am something less than them.

And something more, as well.

"Uh, well..." Brilliant start, Dexter, you're really rallying the troops! "I guess you could say I've never been... the most open person in the world. No. That's my best friend who is. I think I'm kind of the opposite of her because of that. I haven't told anyone that I have cancer except her. She keeps telling me that I should tell her what's wrong or that I should use her as a shoulder. But I don't need to."

"Why not?"

"I'm not terribly afraid of dying," I respond quickly; this seems to surprise most of the people in the group.

"Oh," Lila starts, "If I may, why is that?"

"I deal with death all the time; when you have my job, sometimes death is really all you think about. It's not nearly as scary afterwards. Actually... it's life that scares people more." A few people chuckle at that.

"And this friend of yours, why have you told her and no one else?"

"She understands, I guess. My mother and sister would probably have heart-attacks, my brothers might kill me themselves for waiting so long to tell them. She won't. She'll maybe pester me a little bit about telling her how I feel-"

"And how do you feel?"

I smile, "Great," That's a lie.

"That's a lie," Lila whispers quite fiercely into my ear, which is rather strange considering that she says it in a sing-song voice.

"What was that, Ms. Tournay?" Donahue asks.

"Nothing," the Brit responds smartly, before mouthing to me: "_We're __talking about this later_."

"Are you sure you feel great?" The elder man pursues the topic once more with a slight wry smile.

"Uh..." I see Lila's amused face out of the corner of my eye as I speak, "... not really. I feel confused most of the time. I used to be a different person, but it feels like over the past few months that I've been getting softer. People who I didn't even look at once before are now starting to get my attention, and people who I only minutely cared for before are now starting to... matter, and it's confusing."

"And scary," Donahue finishes for me with a wide smile. "Tell me something, Dexter; do you feel like you act through a lot of your life? A lot of us do when we find out that we're sick."

"I've acted all my life," I say, well, it is _anonymous._

"And why do you do that?"

Because it's safer? "Because I don't know if people would really like who I am underneath."

"And who are you underneath?" What is this guy, a psychiatrist?

But he raises a valid point; what am I underneath this shell? What truly lies at the base of Dexter's metaphysical self? Is it the Dark Passenger? Or is there some hidden well of 'Dexterness' yet untapped by poor, blind me? My disinterest, my illness, my dreams, my _feelings_ have all left me in a state of confusion, and I don't know the way out. And try as I might to wrack my brain for answers, I know the old me would've known instantly who Dexter was.

Dexter was the monster. Dexter _was_ the Dark Passenger. Dexter was special, wonderful, irreplaceable me. But who is 'me' now? Who is Dexter the Cancer Man? What does he do? Does he just walk on the wire, never looking down below at what awaits him when he finally does lose his balance? Or is there something to be taken from that unknown abyss; something that can build a bridge from a little tightrope?

Who am I now? Where did the old me go? Where was the quiet, orderly, efficient, monstrous Dexter Moser and why can't I get him back?

Do I even want him back?

"I don't know," I respond at length, "I don't know who I am."

* * *

><p>"Interesting little dialogue you had with the old man, yes?" Lila asks, sipping from a cup of coffee.<p>

"I don't know if it was really all that interesting," I reply. She snorts in response:

"You want a suggestion?" I really don't, but the Englishwoman decides to give her advice anyway, "If you want to live a good life-do you?"

"I'm not so sure I do. But it wouldn't be bad... to live a good life. To live with... honor."

"Well, then the greatest way to live with honor is to _be_ who you _pretend to be_."

I look at her quizzically, "Socrates?" Lila nods and takes another sip from her coffee:

"Yes, Socrates. The one who killed himself. But, he's right;_ that's_ all you need. You just need to breathe and to be who you've faked being." She gives me a sweet smile. "That's all it takes, Dexter."

"And who I've faked being. What if he's so far from the real me that-"

"Then make him closer to the real you," the brunette states casually, as if talking about the weather, "You clearly _enjoy_ your family, else you wouldn't be so afraid to tell them you're sick. You clearly _enjoy_ your friendship, else you wouldn't talk about her so much. If all that is faked, if you have to pretend to be that great person you-no doubt-are, then make it closer to the real you. They'll accept you for what you are so long as you strive to be what you act like."

"And if they can't accept what I'm really like?"

Lila shows me her teeth; I can't tell if it's a smile or a grimace, "Then fuck them. They don't deserve you, if so."

More like I don't deserve them. I don't really deserve anything I've been given: a family who loves me, friends who genuinely care for me, a mentor who saved me...

"Is it really that simple for you?" I ask with a grin.

"Of course," the brunette boasts playfully, "It's just _that_ simple."

* * *

><p>"So, come on, Dex, that brain of yours ought to be telling you fucking something," Debs says as we drive to work. It has been Homicide Department custom since Harry took over the Lieutenant post nearly twelve years ago to hold briefings seventy-two hours after the murder to see if we've made headway into any of our cases. Needless to say, this LaGuerta-led briefing will be unnaturally silent. These guys are good.<p>

The roads are as obnoxiously crowded as usual. I'm stuck behind some retiree in his '68 Impala. Viagra central, right there. A man in an old Cavalier honks at me and extends his middle finger as he tries to switch lanes, only to be caught behind a woman in a CR-V. There are trucks to my right, and I'm fairly sure I'm in their blind spot, but I can't move over because the man in the Cavalier has made that quite impossible.

"I don't know, Debs, I just think it has to be someplace co-" And then, something amazing happens. Traffic clears up for a slight moment and the geriatric in his Impala races forward, the lazy American Muscle engine gasps and wheezes as he does so; it leaves just enough room for a particularly inattentive trucker to cut me off, causing me to slam hard on the brakes.

"_Motherfucker_!" Debs yells in response after we pitch forward hard and are sent straight back into our seats, "What the fuck? Is that piece of shit _blind_?" But I'm not paying attention anymore. Something strikes me very strange about the truck. Manny's Ice Delivery, the back of the truck reads.

It's an Ice Truck.

_Cold and narrow. Cold and narrow. Left behind in a parking lot. Some place mobile, some _thing_ mobile._ So the Passenger was giving me the answer all along?

"Dex?" I return to the present to see Debs looking at me in a worried manner, "something wrong?"

"It's an Ice Truck."

"It's a-what?"

"Where he kills, Debs. It's an Ice Truck. He needs a cold place, a mobile place. He wouldn't be able to keep the bodies cold to take to the Bayside Marketplace and we all know he didn't kill in front of a whole bunch of tourists."

"That..." she starts, trying to think of a rebuttal, "...makes sense. As fucking retarded as it sounds, it makes _sense_."

"Of course it would," I say as we continue down towards Brickell Avenue, "I told you it."

"You got anymore? Like a certain type?"

"Well, I doubt the company would be too happy if our guy was tracking blood all over the inside of the Truck, so it's pretty obvious that they don't know yet. Or, they-"

"-reported it stolen!" Deb exclaims; pointing at me with a grin.

"All hail King Dexter the Wise!" I remark, as if I were pretending there are thousands of adoring fans throwing roses at me.

"Don't get too full of yourself, dickless," she banters in return, "Can I... use it? For the briefing, I mean. I know-I mean... it's you who-but, can I?"

As much as I've heard about these things, especially from Brian, I've never seen a demure Debra Morgan before. She sounds a bit like Rita during her more neurotic moments right now. I guess we all have our days. She can't talk, I can't kill; what's the difference?

"Debs, as much as I would like to hear this, obviously, eloquent speech; you can use it."

"Ha," she expels a gust of air that is half-laugh, half-groan, "thanks, Dex. You're a fucking lifesaver."

* * *

><p>Ah, the delightful mania of Harry's legendary 72-hour briefings. People bustle in left and right, frantically worrying whether or not they have all their things in order to present. It's the police officer equivalent of a day in middle school when you have to get up in front of the class and ramble about a topic you don't really care about. Of course, I have nothing more to report other than that my case is still waiting on the DEA to disclose Dmitri's location.<p>

Of course, it will be the Tamiami Slasher that'll get all the coverage, and Debs'll give them a hell of a theory.

"I can't wait to see the look on her face," the brunette says excitedly, grabbing my arm, which, admittedly, is better than being punched. "I'm going to shut this bitch up. It'll be the last fucking time she fucks with me."

"Okay, okay," I calm her down, "It's no good to be that wired. Calm down a bit, would you? And let go of my arm, you don't have to strangle it."

Debra takes a deep breath before continuing, "I'm just excited, is all."

"Don't be," I say, "just do what you need to; don't rub the salt in. LaGuerta can come back and really make your life hell if you don't. Just play the game; set up your argument logically. Try to prove something; don't throw it in her face."

"You sound like a robot, you know that?"

"I've been told," I reply, "but that's also why I usually get what I want out of these briefings. You just need to know how to state your case. LaGuerta's done it at least a hundred times, and that near-politician ability to write accurate speeches based off details other cops scrounge up is probably why she's a shoo-in for Lieutenant after Harry retires."

"God, this department would go to shit if she became Lieutenant."

"Well," I start, holding the door open as we walk towards the briefing room, "if you don't want her to stay as Lieutenant for long, then take a lesson. Start by being diplomatic, Debs. I know you're not the greatest at it, but sometimes being a good cop involves restraining yourself."

"I_ got it_, Dex. Jesus, you sound just like Dad right now," Debra says facetiously.

"Well, _some_one has to," I respond smartly.

"That's just the thing," Debs starts, somehow I get the feeling she wants to talk about _my_ feelings again, "Everyone here has mentioned their ambition. Batista, Hale, Sodoquist, even Doakes want the Lieutenant's Office once Harry is out, but not you. You don't even seem to care."

"Why should I?" I open the door to the briefing room and let the Officer go in first, "Compstat meetings, revenue meetings? Meetings, meetings, meetings. I want to investigate crimes, not run them from behind a desk."

Debs plops herself down on a rather uncomfortable-looking plastic chair and pats the seat next to her, motioning for me to sit, to which I comply.

"Fair enough," she says, "must be nice, to not have dreams like that."

I smile, "I don't know if it is."

"Okay, okay, people," LaGuerta starts from the head of the room, "we've got to move on this and get these guys before the public generates all-out mass-hysteria. Detective Batista tells me we are still waiting on the DEA's okay to speak to the Russian Informant; so we are at a deadlock until they do. I will try to push the request through, but I can't guarantee it'll come out any faster."

She makes a point of looking at me, so I nod politely in acknowledgment.

"Right now, our top-priority case is the Tamiami Slasher. Where are we on locating that witness?"

"Nowhere yet," Doakes replies, surprisingly subdued "we're having Vice teams consult with their hookers to see if any have gone missing."

"Officer Morgan? How are your contacts coming along?"

"Um... they haven't, uh, provided anything yet," clearly public speaking is not Deb's forté, "the murders were done... uh, too far from Calle Ocho."

"Too far?" LaGuerta questions lightly

"Uh, yeah..." I've never truly seen what it's like to see a person literally put their foot in their mouth, but I can visualize Debs doing just so right now. She is starting to sweat, a cold, clammy sweat of someone having serious jitters, "Calle Ocho is too far from the Tamiami Trail to have found any clue to where the hooker may have been picked up. And... without the, uhm, head, we haven't got anything to identify... the, uh, victim."

"And why can't we use fingerprints?" Even Doakes gives the Sergeant a questioning glance. _Everyone's _learned by now that Liquid Nitrogen was used on the fingers. It's extremely corrosive.  
>"Uhm, well, th fingers were inserted into Liquid nitrogen, which caused nitrogen burns and... uh, singed off any chances of us doing a fingerprint I.D."<p>

"Alright, Morgan, you can sit down now," Debs remains standing, "Officer?" The Cuban woman lifts a delicate eyebrow questioningly at the younger brunette:

"Uhm, no, ma'am. I have an... uhm, an idea."

"An idea?"

"Confidence!" I cover up the word in a hacking cough, which, of course, makes my insides burn. Do you see the things I do for you, Debra? And we're not even related. I owe you nothing, and I give you _everything_! She had better show some gratitude.

Debs nods in acknowledgement, "An idea... a different direction-a new way of, uhm, looking at this," God, her shirt must be drenched in sweat by now. I never thought LaGuerta could be so intimidating. Or does Debra just have a previously undiscovered phobia of public speaking? "The killer needs some place, ugh-" she sighs, clearly uncomfortable, "-_mobile_."

"Mobile?"

"To, uh, move around in. He couldn't have, uh, gotten to the Bayside Marketplace without some cover. And, it had it to be some place cold, some place with a lot of space, and something that could get in and out without suspicion."

"So?" Yes, Debra. _So_?

"I think we should look for, uh..." she glances at me for help, "uhm..."

"Moser; would you translate for us?" LaGuerta asks, exasperated.

"Me? Why me?"

"Because apparently you know what she's talking about," she says, "If you didn't come up with whatever idea it is yourself."

Debs looks like she's just been slapped, and collapses into her seat, looking mighty haggard, as I glance at her apologetically and stand up.

"Officer Morgan came up with the idea that we should be looking for an Ice Truck."

"What? Like one that sells Ice Cream?" She snorts, a few officers laugh with her.

Well, if you want to play that way; allow me to retort! I give her a polite smile and a murderous stare, which is enough to immediately shut the Sergeant up as I speak:

"No, like the one you stab and hang hookers up on meat hooks in, that kind." I respond in a spritely manner, "One that might have been reported stolen within the last two weeks. And possibly on security cameras if you look closely. Maybe, pretending to supply a shop a bit of shrimp, or lobster; I don't know." I stop to shrug my shoulders in a greatly exaggerated manner, "But I know one thing: It makes more sense than a witness."

"And why is that, Moser?" Suddenly, LaGuerta's voice seems hard-edged. Have I made her angry? How... _delicious_.

"That cut wasn't interrupted, both Masuka and I can look at it again for you, but it's indicative of a person who looks at a body, starts making a cut, and then chooses not to. There is no tissue damage from him taking the knife out too fast, as one would in surprise. Nope, this was a completely well-thought out choice. Objective, clinical. Like a surgeon. You could _say_ he was interrupted, but, then you'd probably be wrong. He's looking for a spark of imagination." I smile, "He's bored."

"No. It's a bad idea. Keep looking for the witness." She gives a pointed stare to a stunned Debra, and then to me, before speaking again, "That concludes this meeting."

People file out after LaGuerta storms towards the door, leaving only Debs and I behind to rue her utter, complete, and ignominious failure:

"Hey, look on the bright side, we tried," I say, but Deb shoots me a glare. For a moment, I am unsure of what to do; I am not good in situations when people are feeling insecure-the emotion some times feels all-too-real for me-and I tend to avoid said situations. But here I am, locked next to a seething Deb like I am locked in Eliza's loving embrace and Cancer's cold grasp.

Where is Dark-Devoted Dexter? Has he been exchanged for Dearly Daft Dex for all eternity? I want _me_ back.

But he is far away, in an unknown country, maybe; and here I am, patting Deb's back awkwardly and saying 'there, there' like it actually means anything.

"If you say 'there, there' one more time, I'll punch you in the fucking dick." Well, I don't want my fucking dick to be punched, so I decide to stop speaking. I am afraid that she'll clock me if I don't lift my arm off her back, but at the same time, I fear she'll attack me if I do. "God!" She exclaims, "I botched the whole fucking thing up. I'm sorry, Dex."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up too much," I smirk, "you're just not the _greatest_ public speaker I've ever seen."

"I fucking noticed," she responds exasperatedly, before smiling at me and leaning into my shoulder. "You're much better at it than I am. You're better at _everything_. It's probably why Dad was always so interested in you."

"That's not true," I say, feeling a surge of protectiveness for the brunette's father, "Harry loves you; I just needed his help then. I was in a tough place."

"A tough place?" Debra snorts, "Dexter-the-fucking-Zen-Master-Moser in a tough place? I wouldn't believe it."

"There's a lot about me you wouldn't believe," I reply. This is surprisingly easy, very easy. Maybe Lila was right, all I have to do is be who I pretend to be.

"I know that," she wraps my arms around her, holding my wrist with her own hand as she cranes her head up to look at me, "You don't talk to me, Dex. I mean, you're the closest thing I have to a brother, and you tell me this big fucking secret of yours-one you won't tell _anyone _else-and now you won't even tell me jackshit about how you feel."

"Debs, I-"

"Just listen to me, you fucking idiot," she says dangerously, "We've known each other since we were kids. We've been best friends since I was three! And all my life, you and Dad have held me at a distance. You two are all I have, and I think that I deserve to know what's going on, and how you feel. I've_ earned_ it!"

I'd like to tell her to shut up and stop pestering me, but she's right. I _have_ held her-I've held everyone-at a distance all my life. And it's kept me safe, but Debs is a friend. More than a friend, really. She's like a sister.

"I've been having really strange dreams lately," I say, "I don't sleep much, and when I do, I see the most bizarre things."

She smiles, apparently surprised that I actually complied with her wishes, "Well, it's a nightmare. Everyone has them."

I snort, "Not me. I don't dream," the disbelieving look she gives me prompts further explanation, "Well, there are probably free-floating images in my head that my mind creates when it's bored, but I never remember dreams. So I just say I don't have them."

"Until now?"

"Until now," I echo.

"Well, what are your dreams like?"

"They're really bizarre. People dying, strange hospitals, beds, the whole nine yards," I say, deciding that telling her I dream of murdering prostitutes is not a good idea before a wild question appears to me, "What's it like? To dream?"

"Huh?" Debs asks, confused.

"To have a good dream?" I clarify. "I don't really know what it's like."

"Uhm..." she seems unsure of where to begin, "it's a lot like... you're walking on a wire on a really windy day. You're trying to stay awake, and walk on that wire to the other side, but..."

"Below you is an abyss?" I ask, smiling.

"Yeah, this crazy, fucking _huge_ blackness that you can't really see, but you know something's in there. But you're being pushed around and before you know it, you fall off that wire. You fall off it and into your unconscious, I guess. And you might get a good dream, you might get a bad one. All you know is that you're floating. Like your drifting to something, and it's pulling you down further into your psyche."

"Like gravity?"

"Yeah, a little bit like gravity," Debs affirms, her emerald-brown eyes sparkling brightly, "All it needs is somebody to bring down."

* * *

><p>A good killer is always clothing-conscientious. You don't want to come off as too meager, nor too pretentious. There is no need to dress in a Batman suit; you just end up looking like an idiot. However, you want to dress to be ignored at night. In the daytime, as a protector of the law, you have to dress to be absolutely uninteresting. And usually, a nice, striped button down shirt with chinos or a black henley with khaki-colored jeans will do the job.<p>

However, at night, as a breaker of the law, I must become truly invisible. Contrary to what many think, you don't have to be decked out in black; in fact, this makes you more obvious. Browns and dark greens are natural, earthy colors, and by some strange flaw in the human psychology, we tend to overlook people dressed in these colors. And so, a brown, long-sleeved henley and olive-green cargo pants, with plenty of pockets should I find the need to use Etorphine will do the trick nicely.

But tonight, I simply mean to search. I must get the details right or it means nothing. There will be no murder, as much as it makes the Passenger sing with delight, who has returned full-force now that neither Eliza nor Debs are bothering me anymore, and my much-missed desire to slash and clash in the night has returned with him.

It's been a day since Debs got beaten down by LaGuerta, and after our conversation about dreams. Since then, she's been a lot more understanding and has seemed to give me a wide berth. In return, however, she deems it necessary to tell me her problems. She tells me that she feels like I don't care for her, which is weird, because, for one: I shouldn't care, we aren't blood; and two: Despite all that, I do care; at least, I care as much as I can.

In any case, with Debs leaving room to breathe and Eliza having to spend time with her own family, I've been given a literal gift from God: free time. So, here I am, at Father Michael Donovan's humble abode.

Donovan's house is a small Florida-style home in Coconut Grove, which is little obnoxious, considering that if I find something, I will most likely be using his little property that's so unassumingly out of the way for bloodier purposes. And that's out in Opa Locka. Annoyingly, I'll have to go South and then back North, at which the Dark Passenger sighs in a far-too-human manner for my liking.

And just like Donovan's unassuming little bit of property up in Opa Locka, his unassuming house has, of course, an unassuming lock. A lock, naturally, that is exceedingly, almost childishly easy to pick.

Child molesters are always very easy to catch; it beats me as to why they're so easy to catch, but they are. I think it may have something to do with the world they live in. All that childish innocence they surround themselves with might make them careless, or maybe deadbolt locks look strange on the on-the-whole average house of a well-to-do priest.

I walk into the house, looking upon the unremitting mediocrity of it all. If there was ever a patron saint of all that is shabby and drab, it is Mike Donovan. Fortunately for me, I have stolen into his home when both he and his wife are out, meaning the house is quite empty.

But that also gives me another clue. Donovan's wife must provide trouble, so if he has any evidence of the murders of five little boys, it'll be somewhere in his office or in whatever shabby room with an ancient desk and chair; as well as an even older computer on the desk it may be.

The Desktop really is ancient, there isn't even a real operating system on the computer; which makes it incredibly easy to hack, but it likely won't have anything useful for me on it. I'll probably have to find something more concrete.

There is a clipping on Donovan's wall, which appears to be a copy of the fourth stanza of Heinlein's _The Green Hills of Earth_. I didn't know my pious and likely child-molesting friend was that in love with poetry! I suppose that Cyreniac enjoyment of nubile flesh shouldn't impede one's love of words. Next to Heinlein are the last ten lines of Tennyson's _Ulysses_; next to it, Eliot's _The_ _Wasteland_, then _The Charge of the Light Brigade_, and beyond that, all of _Dover Beach _sits over a bookshelf.

But no matter how I look, I find nothing. There is nothing in his drawers, nothing at all in the office. Could he have kept his little souvenirs somewhere else?

Suddenly I am drawn back to the poetry on the wall, reading over the lines Donovan has highlighted.

_"Out ride the sons of Terra,  
>Far drives the thundering jet,<br>Up leaps a race of Earthmen,  
>Out, far, and onward yet."<em>

And to its right, certain lines of _Ulysses _are marked in the unmistakable megawatt yellow of a highlighter:

_ "It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;  
>It may be we shall touch the happy<em> isles."

And:

_"We are not now that strength which in old days  
>Moved heaven and earth; that which we are, we are;"<em>

Finally, off to the side where _Dover Beach_ rests, I notice a rather conspicuously kept poetry book next to a bunch of unopened, and quite dusty tomes that I obviously shouldn't waste my time caring about. I pull the book off the shelf lightly and open it gingerly, leafing through the pages until I come to Matthew Arnold. _Dover Beach_ has been heavily annotated, especially the last stanza. There is a marked interest portrayed in the lines '_Ah love, let us be true to one another!_'. Perhaps a killer wishing that his desires were truthful, as if he wished they were natural.

But as I turn the page, I am greeted with a sight that at once turns my normally steel-strong stomach and sets my teeth on edge in anticipation at the same time.

It is a picture.

A picture of a child. Bound, gagged, beaten, dressed in what I assume a woman's dress. A white dress, like the kind a stereotypical virgin girl might wear-except for the fact that a young boy wears this. I look up at the other poems and start flipping through the book to the next picture, which comes up with _The Charge of the Light Brigade_, where the boy is new dressed in rags that might pass off as a military uniform.

Then, a child dressed as a spaceman after _The Green Hills of Earth_, and then a sickly boy in a toga after _Ulysses; _the child is bent over, as if Donovan were ready to... despite being a generally remorseless monster, the depths of depravity that people can sink to surprises even me sometimes.

After looking through increasingly gruesome and graphic depictions of what a man can do to a young boy and still feel it appropriate to snap pictures, I decide I've had enough and look around for any clues as to where these crimes may have taken place. They're all in the same, dingy, wooden place. It's dirty, grimy, and there is a small bed in the corner of the room in almost all of these pictures. I only know of one place where Donovan may have felt empowered and alone enough to do such despicable things to children...

His little bit of property up in Opa Locka.

* * *

><p>The door to his cabin slides open easily once the padlock is off. Father Donovan's darkest deeds were done in this small, two-room cabin. In one room is a nice, empty space. In the other, a small bed is nestled into the corner. This cabin is filthier and shabbier than Donovan's house, but still equally as depressing. But, even so, I feel an unnatural tinge of excitement go through my spine as the Passenger scuttles around in my brain, looking around at its surroundings. And for a moment, I understand what Debs was talking about when we were talking about dreams.<p>

I'm on a wire. A taut wire, but it is a windy day and I have to make it across. Below me is the simpleminded hedonism of the unchecked versions of myself that run around all over the world, and at the other end is the awakened earth: It's green hills, where those who truly understand the world the way it was meant to be understood can enter. Ha, wouldn't it be such delicious irony if we were the sons of Terra? Us, the monsters and scourges of society?

Maybe this is what it's like to dream a good dream.

But I must be careful. I can't shake the feeling that I am not alone. The Passenger orders me to be watchful, all the while telling me to look for any bodies that I could use for the ritual. Of course, the floor on the inside appears to be concrete, so there's obviously no luck there. But the Passenger and I are out in Nowhere, Florida, meaning, of course, that there is a lot of land with soft, loamy soil around the concrete cabin.

I return to the outdoors with a sense of cautiousness overpowering my excitement. It feels wrong; there is someone nearby though I can't tell where. The Passenger sets off these alarm bells and I know I don't have long to work. I pass through some underbrush and step over the soft mud, looking for someplace where the bodies might be. Donovan is neither smart, nor particularly cautious, considering what he chose as his souvenirs from the children he murdered, so I doubt he'd have gone very far to dump there bodies.

And sure enough, I am right. Donovan is a careless idiot. I look down at a slightly softer patch of dirt and see that it has recently been upturned. It is a small little bump in the ground, and there are four others like it seated one next to the other. Now, if I had my shovel...

In a moment, I am back at my car, looking for that damn shovel. The passenger has seemed to calm now, and has been lulled back into a sense of complete awareness. But there is still that lingering paranoia that someone might be following dull Dexter.

I return to the area I had left and begin to dig into one of the patches of recently upturned dirt. After a few minutes of exhaustive struggle, I strike something. It does not clang, like rock, or sink as mud would; instead, I hear a light thumping noise, like the sound of something striking human flesh.

I smile a transcendent little smile as I lift some dirt away to reveal a decomposing human hand. The hand of a young boy's. The smell doesn't bother me anymore, I've had enough time to get used to bodies decaying.

But something suddenly stops me dead. A sound, a faint sound of an engine. Possibly a truck's engine. I cover up the body and decide I will come back for it later; someone is too close. I rush back to my little black Celica, worn-down through years and years of misuse, and start the engine with just enough time to get out onto the main road where I come to a stoplight. And then, something amazing happens.

A truck passes by me. A truck that sounds remarkably similar to the one I heard nearby the cabin. It passes by slowly, as if the driver wants me to see who he is. _Manny's Ice Delivery Miami-Dade_, is emblazoned on the side.

An Ice Truck? From Miami out in Opa Locka? At this time of night? Just happening upon Dexter? Something tells me that this is no coincidence. And he stops for a moment, and flashes his hazard lights twice, as if telling me to follow.

And I do.

We pass the Opa Locka Airport and travel east until we head onto I-95, following it down all the way into Miami before exiting off the Dolphin Expressway and onto the MacArthur Causeway. Finally, he takes a left onto Fountain Street, guiding me along as a parent ushers his child to follow him. It's only too late that I realize we've gotten off a major road and entered a residential island. We pass the first island, and midway to the second island, with a sense of paranoid trepidation building up from my spine to my brain, the man in the Ice Truck stops. And simply sits there for a moment, brake engaged. I do the same.

I take one moment to look at the plates of the truck. It has one of those 'Choose Life!' plates that I find wickedly ironic, and have to keep myself from laughing at. The actual plate reads: "KL6 2552". I quickly scrounge up a pen and paper from my glove compartment and scribble down the plate numbers when I notice the truck begin to reverse from its original position and makes a T-turn to face me.

I immediately switch my own car into reverse and try to back away but the truck is already moving towards me at a speed faster than my small, overworked car can put out in Reverse. It comes closer, closer, and for a moment I wonder what Batista and Debs will think when they pull my mangled body out of the wreck, perhaps with Michelin tire-tracks crossing my torso. But the inevitable crash and bang of glass shattering around me and the grille of the truck hurtling towards my face never arrives.

Instead, he passes by quite quickly and something comes flying at my windshield. A head.

A human head. A woman's to be precise.

I would laugh if I could.

* * *

><p>"So, he just... threw it at you?" LaGuerta asks as I rub my eyes tiredly, leaning against an ambulance. "Nothing else?"<p>

"Nothing else," I reply, "I don't even know why I started following him. I went out for a midnight snack and I just saw him driving around. It was nearby the Tamiami Trail, and I didn't think a trucker would be out so late, so I thought I'd follow him, he ended taking me all the way down here."

"Ha," LaGuerta shows me her teeth and laughs, but I can't tell if it is a laugh of joy or pain, "Looks like Morgan was right."

"I told you, she's brighter than she looks," the Latina snorts as I say this:

"What? Smarter than a supermodel?" She retorts with a slight grin.

I nod, "She may look like a supermodel, but she's got her father's head. She'd do well in Homicide, you know that."

"It's just... funny, is all. You two are best friends, like brother and sister, and when she comes up with this idea, here you are. Backing it up like a big brother should."

"She's smart, she knows what she's doing, Sergeant."

"I told you to call me María, Dexter," she grasps my arm with surprising softness for a normally hard woman. "And you're right. Debra is smart." She grins ruefully, scratching her forehead in an abashed manner, "She told us what to look for and if _this_ head happens to belong to our hooker that's missing _her_ head, then she's right. Maybe she _can_ be good for Homicide."

"Maybe," I affirm.

"So, did you get anything else?" Debra asks, grinning widely, as if to rub the salt in the wound of our poor Sergeant, as she walks over to LaGuerta and I, "A look at the driver, anything at all?" I look behind her to see Harry taking up the rear with Batista and Doakes flanking Debs.

"Lieutenant, you're back." I state, giving my childhood mentor a curt nod.

"So it would seem, what've you got, Moser?" Harry asks coldly. Harry is always in a bad humor once he returns from police conventions. He often becomes convinced that it's all political bullshit and that no one actually cares about protecting their city's residents.

"License plate," I quip lightly, "KL6 2552."

"I'll have Masuka put it through ALPR to confirm it's our truck. Then we'll get him."

"Hmm... I don't think so," I reply, "The guy chucked a head at me. I doubt he's planning on keeping that truck for much longer."

"We'll keep that it mind, Dexter," the Lieutenant gives me a rare smile, "You've probably had a long night. Go home. Get some rest. And come talk to me in the morning."

"About what?" I ask.

Harry gives me a sideways look, "We'll talk about that tomorrow. Debra, take Dexter home in my car, he won't be able to use his until tomorrow, at least; Batista and Doakes will take it from here." Fortunately, all the stuff I need is in my pockets, and I dumped the shovel off the MacArthur Causeway so nobody would question the fresh dirt on it. Needless to say, I'm quite willing to leave my car behind.

"But-" Debs begins, clearly wanting to stay, but Harry cuts her off.

"It's an order," he says curtly. Debs nods submissively and leads me to the car, which is an unmarked Crown Victoria. Debs takes the driver's seat and I sit as a passenger, which seems like a strange role-reversal, as I am normally the one who has to chauffeur her everywhere. She sits there for a while, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel, before she speaks:

"Thank you, Dex."

I look at her, and nod, "No problem, Debs. Just never thought I'd run into this guy. I just wanted to get a sandwich."

Deb snorts and nods, before putting the car into gear: "Let's get you home."

* * *

><p>Debs leaves me at the front of my apartment building, still thanking me profusely, so I walk around the building towards my apartment. Brian's lights are off, and I don't really feel like disturbing him to talk about the strange things that have happened, because no doubt he doesn't want to hear it, and Debs will probably tell him soon enough when both come barging through my door tomorrow morning.<p>

I unlock my door and step into my apartment, only to realize something is very wrong. Someone has been inside my apartment. There is nothing out of order, nothing at all at first glance. But something is off.

And then I see _it_.

On my refrigerator. A beautiful little barbie doll head is attached to my freezer door. I walk up to it and strike it lightly with my index finger; the head spins and makes a _thack thack_ noise on the stainless metal f my freezer door. I do it again, finding the dismembered doll's head oddly entrancing.

_Thack thack. Thack thack_.

It's surprisingly soothing. Maybe I've found my own stressball!

But a warning bubbles up from the Passenger, telling me to open the freezer door. I comply. And inside is the rest of the Barbie doll, cut up in the exact way the Tamiami Slasher kills his victims.

This is not a warning. He is not telling me to leave, or back off. In fact, I think he wants me to continue trying to find him. Like an invitation. Or an incomplete puzzle. Like he's saying 'I am the piece you've been missing all your life'. I pick up the hand of the doll and inspect it without truly seeing anything. Here is a puzzle, and here is a riddle laid out by a master to be solved by another. A game played by two maestros.

But not tonight. Not even tomorrow. Not for days; or weeks; or maybe even months. This is a game that will be played with time. So I strip off my soiled clothes and head to the shower and stare at the head in my hands for a long time, water cascading over it, before I towel myself off and head to my room, setting the doll's head beside Liza's kaleidoscope. My shriveled heart starts to feel something akin to anticipation and enlightened awareness for the chase, for the puzzle, as I take one last look at the head before setting my head down on the pillow. And then something amazing happens: I fall asleep.

I am on the wire of _human _emotions and doubts, looking down into the blackness, into the swell that is the Dark Passenger. And on the cool green hills of earth off in the distance, up leaps a race of Earthmen: Harry, Debs, Brian, Eliza... all of them. But I am on the wire, looking deep into more animal desires and stranger magics. And in front of me, are two shadowy figures on the same tightrope wire as I, one holding a barbie doll head, the other with fires and dead women dancing in his eyes; both challenging me, beckoning me to fall with them into the darkness. And Debs, and Harry, and my family; they all call out to me. 'Come to us; rest your eyes on friendly skies and your feet on these green hills of earth!'. And they look so happy over there...

But_ I_ am on the wire. And I don't think I can be anything else but the monster on the wire.

So I close my eyes and let gravity do the rest.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>Debra in this AU is more of a combination between TV Debra and Book Deborah. Unlike in the TV Series, I've decided to make Deb a Psychology Major, particularly a major in Behavioral Psych, which will make her an expert profiler as the series goes on. In case you're wondering, Dexter is a Biology Major and a Physics Minor, which seemed to fit with his character having been originally considered going to Med School, so Dex and Deb may end up having a lot of substance packed into their conversations. Next chapter will be more of a direct continuation of this chapter, as it picks up the morning after this chapter ends.

Once again, tell me how I'm doing! Dropping a review makes me happy and makes you happy because it leads to faster updates!

Thanks again,  
>Geist.<p> 


	6. Do the Evolution

**Summary:** Dexter and Debra find the Tamiami Slasher's Ice Truck, which reveals within it a secret that horrifies Dexter. The DEA authorizes a meeting with 'Dmitri'; Dex and Deb go out to Key West to meet him. Brian encourages Dexter to 'evolve', and Dexter experiments with evolution.

**Down on the Upside**

* * *

><p><em>"... I guess it's karma."<em>

_-_Dexter Moser

* * *

><p><strong>'Do the Evolution'<strong>

* * *

><p>"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" I ask, stepping into Harry's office.<p>

Harry immediately levels a narrow look at me, "You know, Dexter, it's surprising what someone can learn about a person when they leave their medicine on their desks when they go back home."

Damn it. I knew I was forgetting something when I checked out last night. I'm usually so much more careful. But it must be the combination of a bad day, my lethargy, and the anticipation of breaking into Mike Donovan's house made me careless. But not anymore. Dexter is back to his prim and proper self, ready to work, play, eat, and sleep. Too bad that it's too late. Of course, I can be optimistic and hope Harry only suspends me without pay instead of emptying a magazine out of his service pistol in me. At least, that's what it seems like he _really_ wants to do right about know.

"So," I say, "then you know."

"Novantrone," Harry says, "I didn't know what it was, at first. But the internet's usually valuable when it comes to these sort of things."

I suppose I should berate him for looking into matters that don't concern him, but I'm fairly sure Harry would disagree with my sentiments.

"What gave me away?" I ask.

"Other than the drugs, and the way you've been looking for the past two months?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow, "Debra's been staying mum whenever we got on the topic of you. I knew something was wrong when I went on the trip to Baltimore. And she pledged to quit smoking; when I asked why, she said it was for you. I guess she doesn't want lung cancer. So, how bad is it?"

"Not bad," I say, "Doctors say I'll get tired and weak at times, but it isn't life-threatening. At least, it isn't yet."

Harry nods, as though he has already made his decision, "Dex, I'm keeping you on for now, but if I feel that this interfering with the way you work, I'm taking you off." Well, this is better news than 'Get the fuck out!', "In any case," Harry continues, "the DEA approved of our request at 'Dmitri's' behest. Apparently he _wants_ to speak with us. But he won't come here, we have to go to him."

"Alright, give me the address and Batista and I'll take off after he's had his coffee."

"No, he's out in _Key West_. I tried to tell him that we couldn't spare a Detective for a whole day, but the DEA wouldn't budge; they want you to meet him in some DEA safehouse in Key West so we don't know where he really lives. So, you'll have to take someone who can devote more time to searching out this guy."

Key West? That'd knock out a whole day, and I was planning on taking Mike Donovan out on his date with the Atlantic Ocean! His wife is out of town today and tomorrow. If I can't do tomorrow, I'll have to kill him tonight.

"Angel can't?"

"No, I already talked to him about it. He said that he could if I wanted, but I couldn't do that to him. He's got a young girl. He should be there for her," I notice that Harry is no longer looking at me, but sending out a glazed stare of longing at his daughter, who sits outside at my desk answering telephone call.

I sigh, "You know, what happened to Debs isn't your fault; you're not a bad father. She's turned out pretty good."

"Ha," Harry snorts, "Better than I expected. Thanks to you, not me, though." Before I can correct the Lieutenant of his self-pitying on how he couldn't have been a better father to his daughter, the man continues: "Take her with you, Dex; she's been doing well under your care. Heard she's the one who came up with the Ice Truck theory."

Well, it was _me_ and not her, but I'll take it as a win for the team:

"Yep," I affirm, "Deb's brilliant under that foul mouth of hers. She's her father's daughter."

"Flattery won't make me forget that you didn't tell me you have cancer," Harry remarks lightly, obviously joking, "In any case, we've set up a meeting with Dmitri for tomorrow at his home. Today, you'll be working on the Tamiami Slasher Case. We're sending you guys out to find that truck. Now get out of here. Oh, and keep me updated on your little problem. If I so much as_ think_ you're holding back, I'll suspend you."

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant!" I salute in a playful, hearty manner, to which Harry simply grimaces and shakes his head in amusement.

I return to the Blood Spatter Office that I have been using as my home since Debra hijacked my desk and settle down to write some reports. But, of course, God works in mysterious and often homicidal ways, so we get a call of a murder down on Brickell.

Batista and I chug along to the crime scene in the elder man's obviously better car. It's a vintage Camaro, and I'm pretty sure this is all the indication of a thirty-five year-old's Mid-life Crisis, but gas prices are spiking, my car is under observation for the rest of the day, and I'll be more than happy to let Batista take me along.

Of course, the body turns out to be a floater. Well, not a true floater, as she was found floating in the rooftop pool of some newly constructed high-rise condo.

"How much do you think one of these condos go for?" I ask Batista, snapping a picture.

"Way outta your paygrade, _socio_," the Cuban man replies in deadpan seriousness.

I look at him, "Oh," I respond, before I take another picture of the dead woman.

It is a surprisingly easy case. For some reason, the vast majority of Miami residents are either really careless, or just plain stupid. Who bashes in the skull of his fiancé with a claw hammer and throws her into a pool, only to leave said claw hammer, covered in his prints, mind you, in the dumpster outside his building.

By eleven o'clock, we've got the perp, a greasy banker of about 30, booked and in lock-up. And it's not a moment too soon because my new favorite buddy has left Miami Metro a gift in a place that Debs says I'd never believe.

And she's right. I certainly don't believe it when I walk into American Airlines Arena.

Now, normally I am not much of a sports fan as they are often meant to appeal to brainless idiots, but I do make exceptions for basketball and soccer. Basketball because there is something about its graceful lethality that appeals to me, and soccer, well, mainly because I had nothing better to do with others when in Europe. But, this year, it seems like everyone's a basketball fan. They say that the Heat can go all the way this year, and Debs is incredibly excited, often making me watch games with her. I neglect to tell the girl that my mother's family is from Seattle and my father's was from Chicago, so, at best, I root for the Supersonics or the Bulls.

"Yo, _hermano_, this is fucked-up shit," Batista remarks as we pass through the doors into the AAA, "What _marícon hijo de puta_ would dump a body here, now?"

"Probably a Nets fan?" I question helpfully, remembering that the Heat are supposed to play them in the first round of the playoffs as we get to the court.

And there, on the court, is my friend's latest hello. A bluish mass of body parts, clearly frozen, placed rather ironically on the Heat Logo at half-court. She winks hello. I nod; it would impolite not to, whether she be dead or not. After all, it's not her I care about, but the man who did this to her; I must afford him _some_ credit.

"We may have to postpone a few games because of this," A cop laments as we pass by; Batista gives him a pitying look:

"Sucks for us all, doesn't it, Moser?"

"What the hell are you looking at me for?" I question lightly, "I'm a Bulls fan."

Batista and a whole gaggle of Unis that seem to have materialized from thin air stare at me as if I had just urinated on the Bible and proceeded to toss it into a grease fire. "Shit!" One of them says, as if they are disappointed that Detective Moser isn't one of them:

"But, it is great to be on the home court of the Miami Heat," I shrug nonchalantly, hoping the group will take a hint and disperse.

Batista sighs, "I ain't one to judge, Dex, but that whole Michael Jordan thing is a bit old, he doesn't even play anymore."

"But, my dad-" The Cuban man holds up his hand in, telling me to settle down.

"I know, all the kids liked him back in the day, but we in Miami aren't fair weather fans."

Somehow, I doubt that, Angel.

"Wait," I ask, "Aren't you from New York?"

Batista immediately clams up and looks for an escape, realizing the grave error he's made. But, thankfully for the elder detective, salvation comes in the form of Debra Morgan, "Dex, stop twiddling your dick and get the fuck over here!" Ah. Her mouth is as charming as ever.

"Coming, Debs," I reply, heading down the stairway to the court and meeting Debs at the halfway line.

"'Bout fucking time," she snorts, "took the scenic route?"

"Now is no time to snark, Debsie," I chide her like I would a toddler, "I'm sure _she'd_ rather us find her murderer instead of bickering about something as unimportant as time." I say while pointing at the dead hooker.

She blows air through her teeth, making a whistling noise, "Dexter Moser says time is unimportant. Figures. You're really good. In any case, the body was called in earlier this morning. Beats me why they waited to send us out till now, but apparently Doakes and LaGuerta have been here for hours, ever since you and Batista went out to check on that Floater case."

"Why the Arena?" I question, "Why would he leave a body _here_ of all places?"

"Clearly because he's not a Basketball fan, grasshopper," Masuka states in a grossly exaggerated Asian-Wise Man voice as he steps up to us.

"Ah, you are wise, Master! Grant me knowledge like yours," I reply in a mockingly piteous manner.

Masuka smiles and puts a camera into my hands, "Two things you must learn, grasshopper," he says, "do not think; do. And do not think; do it, if you catch my drift." And Vince begins to laugh in that horrible way of his that makes him sound like a Amsterdam-based transvestite prostitute.

Debs sighs and rubs her forehead in response, "I'm surrounded by fucking morons." She says, to which Masuka seems to take considerable offense:

"Hey, I am not a fucking moron!" the bald man exclaims, "Though I _do_ fuck morons. Morgan, you want to go into the locker room and-"

"Shut the fuck up, Masuka," Deb says dangerously. I decide against helpfully pointing out that Masuka was technically calling the Morgan a moron for the Forensic Scientist's sake; hell hath no fury like a Debra scorned. She immediately turns heel from him and stomps off to the head of the body.

"You think she likes me?" He asks, which surprises me. Does Vince Masuka have a thing for Debra Morgan? "I mean, how do you think she took it?"

I look over at Debs, who has her jaw set in a very unhappy manner. She also seems to be squinting, a sign I've learned to regard as the 'stay away from me' Debra. I nod a few times, wondering how to say this as I unscrew the cap over the lens of the camera, before realizing there is no way to tell him Debra would rather drown herself in the Biscayne Bay before thinking _that way _about the scientist:

"Nailed it," I assure him with what I must regard as the greatest poker face in history. I slide towards Debs before I can even see his reaction.

"What the fuck?" Debs asks, pointing at the hooker's right hand, "Her fingers are missing."

"Your powers of observation never cease to astound me," I snark, snapping a picture of the arm as well as the hand that is currently missing its fingers. Debra shoots me a glare that instantly makes me want to apologize. She's really been getting good at those Harry-stares.

But, Masuka breaks any tension by ambling up with his camera to the woman's face, which to this point has been covered by her hair, lifts it back, yells out: "Money shot!" And snaps a picture of the horrified woman's face.

"Jesus, Masuka, have you ever fucking heard of respect for the d-" Debs pauses and stares for a long moment at the face. Even Masuka seems surprised by her sudden stop:

"Something wrong, Debs?" I ask.

She shakes her head, "I... I _know_ this woman. She was one of the working girls on my corner."

I nod, interested, "Really?"

"Sherry Taylor," Masuka says, "that's what was on the Driver's License."

"Yeah, but she called herself Cherry... fuck I've got to go back and see my contacts." She sighs, looking a little longer at the body with something akin to pity in her eyes, "She had a little boy-" she pauses before correcting herself, "-No. _Two_ of them. She had two little boys."

Debs shakes her head and Masuka gives me a strange look. Uh, think fast, Dexter!

"You want a hug?" I ask as she turns away. Deb flings her middle finger up and marches away:

"Fuck off and die, Dexter."

* * *

><p>Unfortunately for Debs, I have, in fact, not made good on her order to fuck off and die; I'm apparently needed to file blood reports instead because I have become de facto Blood Spatter Analyst and it appears Matthews is too lazy to hire one, citing that I do 'good work' and that it will make a difference in my paycheck. Which I'm not complaining about, but it is time-consuming when I could be enjoying a sandwich.<p>

I coast rather easily through the rest of the day and file reports, waiting with anticipation for six o'clock so that I can check out and send Mike Donovan the way of all flesh. But, of course, I am cursed, so the moment I decide to check out, a very nervous and jittery Debra comes into my office and slams the door shut behind her:

"Debs, couldn't you have waited five minutes? I'm about to check out."

"Dex, you gotta help me out," she says quickly, almost in one breath, "We're still trying to find that truck. ALPR said it was a truck from Manny's Ice Delivery, but Management said the truck had been stolen, and they were in the process of getting Lojack on their trucks, but this one hadn't had it installed yet."

"So, we're looking for a stolen Ice Truck without a single clue as to where it is?"

Debs stares at me for a moment, before nodding slightly, "Yeah," she says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Good luck with that," I snort, opening the door and stepping out.

"No, Dex, you gotta help me out," She says desperately. No, I don't. I don't _gotta_ help anyone.

"Not tonight, Deb, I've got a ton of work to do anyways, and tomorrow you and I have got to go to Key West, so you'd best be getting rest tonight." I try to reason with her, but you do not know Debra Morgan if you do not know that she is Mother Mary of persistence.

"Please, Dex?" She gives me wonderfully large doe-eyes and extends the 'leas' in 'please', like Deb would when we were kids and she wanted me to help her with homework. Granted, this is not the same thing as her seventh-grade U.S. History paper, but the effect still comes off quite well. It annoys me slightly that people have suddenly been able to evoke pity and pro bono work from Decidedly Dim Dexter, and I hope that I can somehow return to Dexter the Dark, who is unfazed by Debra, or Harry, or Brian, or anyone.

"Debs, this is a bad..." she continues to give me that look and I lose my train of thought. It's slightly disconcerting. "Ugh," I sigh, "Fine. But not for long. An hour. No more."

God. Weak-willed Dexter needs to step up his game.

"Thanks, Dex," Debs grins in a way that makes me want to slap her.

Soon enough, we're in my little black Celica, which has been cleared by the Department, but a Mechanic who took a look at it for any other Forensic signs says to get rid of the thing, it's a death trap. He hit on Debs a bit, too, but she seems to be uninterested, judging by the fact that she walked right past him and into my car.

"Think about it," Deb jabbers over the radio, which is slightly annoying, because I _really_ like Boston, "This guy chucked a fucking_ head_ at you. He sure as fuck ain't shy."

"Astute," I respond through gritted teeth, "You think he's hiding the truck in plain sight?"

"So plain it's nearly invisible. I figure that he wants us to find this truck, otherwise he wouldn't have made it so easy for you, a Detective, to see his license plate and take the numbers off it."

"Go on," I entreat her sarcastically, and she whacks my shoulder, "Ow, Jesus, Debs. I need to drive!"

"Come on, Dex. What's the most famous street in Miami?" She asks, clearly enjoying giving me a riddle for once.

"Ocean Drive, of course," I reply, before it hits me like a ton of bricks. "Oh." I say.

"Yeah," Debra responds, still grinning like an idiot as I turn onto the Venetian Causeway and head towards Southbeach.

* * *

><p>Ocean Drive. It's the most famous, most widely-seen street in all of Miami. It's where Tony Montana gunned down those guys with the chainsaws, it's seen on practically every episode of <em>CSI: Miami<em> there is, and it's the symbol of opulence and the nightlife of Miami-in other words, everything wrong with society. It's where the rich go to behave like animals and blow their money on anything and everything of little to no value.

Don't get me wrong, I am not jealous of the rich. Money is simply a human abstract to me, and therefore meaningless; it's what chimps who think they're men use to flaunt their obvious importance in front of less important people. I don't usually think much of it, considering I could usually kill whatever Vodka-tonic addled pudgy businessman it is in question in at least sixteen different ways.

It's the shameless, brazen, displaying of their own idiocy and decadence that somehow manages to irk me. The best life, in my opinion, is the modest life, because no one will question your darker desires if you appear to be boring enough. These people have no care or understanding of the world, as they can retreat into their vast wealth for any horrifying thing they might do. And the sad part is, TV glorifies them, and the poorer denizens of our fair city want to be drunk, clubbing morons.

"I hate Ocean Drive," Debs remarks, apparently on the same wavelength of thinking that I am.

I snort, "You hate the street or the people?"

"Both, I guess," she indicates a couple with their tongues down each other's throats and the woman's left hand is rather shamelessly stroking the man's crotch, "Mainly the people, and the street because it symbolizes these people."

"They're sheep," I say, slowly moving with the traffic, which has just started to get much heavier, "Just ignorant. They don't know anything else. Like a hood rat turns to crime. They're just following their roles. One becomes a self-indugent playboy, another a violent drug-dealer."

"Not much of a difference when you really think about it. Just social class," Debra says, looking on at the shoulder, where many vehicles are parked, "it's all reinforced behavior, everything these people touch turns to gold and they don't even fucking realize it."

"Well, they wouldn't," I reply, "They're like chess pieces."

"Chess pieces?"

"Everyone controls someone. Bishops, Kings, Queens. Everyone has a role."

"And what are we?" Debs asks, clearly seeming to not want to know the answer.

I smile wryly, "Pawns." I say.

"Yeah, you got that fucking right," Deb pauses, squints, and then a wide grin forms on her face: "Best friend, we have hit the fucking _jackpot_!" She points to the right, and I catch a glimpse of a still-running Ice Truck. _Manny's Ice Delivery _is emblazoned on the door, and on the rear bumper is one of those pretty yellow 'Choose Life!' plates. And the numbers on it: _KL6 2552_.

This is his truck.

"Well, would you look at that?" I remark, pulling into an empty spot on the other side of the street. Debs and I get out of my car and head to the truck; she smiles a radiant smile all the way there.

"Why is the engine still running?" She asks. I feel a smile creeping onto my face that I do my best to hide:

"It keeps the refrigerator running." I reply, admiring the brashness of my new friend, "call Harry, Debs. We've got our truck."

Debra seems to hardly be able to keep from breaking out into song and dance as she punches in her fathers number onto her phone. I notice that the radio is playing quite loudly up in the cabin, which is interesting. Why would he play music so loudly?

I have to admit, however, that whoever this man is, he certainly has good taste in music.

It takes the rest of the Homicide Crew twenty minutes to get to our little corner of Ocean Drive.

"It's just been sitting here?" Harry asks, snapping on a pair of latex gloves while I put on a pair of nitrile ones. Debs nods, moving away from the police tape that has materialized around the truck. Drunk people who have left the nightclubs that litter the street gather around the tape, straining to see a dead body, but I don't think they'll be very happy with what they see. This guy seems to have fun playing with the public's emotions, so I doubt he'll leave anything substantial in this truck just to keep the tension rising.

"You must've been a motherfucker at Clue," Batista remarks, patting my back in a congratulatory manner.

I give him a mock-glare, "Don't talk about my mother like that, especially not when we're talking about game night. Besides, it's Debs who brought me in on this. I only wanted to get some shut eye." And to cut off Mike Donovan's fingers one at a time. Which I now won't be able to do. I'll have to wait till the next time he's out of sight of the watchful eye of his wife, which is in two weeks when he and the choir go out for a recital.

But the Passenger doesn't want to wait that long, so it looks like I'll have to go to the next name on my list before I get to Donovan. That leads me to a young man named Jamie Jaworski, who will go the way of all flesh as soon as I can prove him guilty beyond doubt.

By the time Masuka, LaGuerta, and Doakes all arrive on scene, we're ready to crack the back of the truck open. Harry even positions himself outside the truck to be the first one in the truck. Batista and I, however, stand off to the side since we are technically not on this case and I was simply acting out of my own goodwill to help Debs rather than using my time on the job. The door opens; Harry and Debs go in first, soon followed by LaGuerta and Masuka. Doakes just seems content boring holes into my forehead:

"You must really want to go in there, don't you?" He asks in a surprisingly placid manner.

"Well," I reply, "I do want to know what's in there, if that's what you're asking."

"Of course." He observes, "Fucking weirdo."

"_Dío mio_, do you ever let up?" Batista asks, causing even the elder Detective to stop for a moment in confusion. Ah, Angel, you saint, you! Coming to Distressing Damsel Dexter's side in his hour of need?

"Dex!" Debs calls in a rather worried manner from the open truck, "You gotta see this!"

"Gentlemen," I give them my heartfelt goodbyes, "I believe that's my cue."

I head to the truck's rear and feel the cool waves of wind from within the cabin. It's very hard to see what's going on inside the truck, considering that it is a dark night and the frosty wisps block practically everything in sight. But Deb looks rather shaken.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She shakes her head, "There's some...goddamn! Doakes, Batista; call a fucking ambulance!" What? Could someone be alive? I try to press, but Debs remains silent, even Masuka comes stumbling out looking rather green. I decide that if he's got Debs, one of the most stoic women I know when it comes to the depths of depravity people can steep to, and Masuka, who I thought (to this day, at least) could not be fazed by anything, I must see this masterpiece inside the truck.

I instantly regret it the moment I walk inside the truck.

The first thing that hits me, even in the the wake of the frostbitten walls that surround me, is a faint and coppery scent. A lot like blood. I grit my teeth, steadying myself. Must. Keep. Control. The box cutter in my left pocket begs to be used, and the 92FS I keep holstered at the waist on my back becomes unnaturally heavy. I want to be back outside. I bet tonight's a full moon. I don't need to wait for Jaworski, I can kill the first person I see outside.

The next thing that comes is an unnatural wailing noise. High-pitched; blood-curdling. A complete and utter scream of horror. No. Two of them. And I suddenly realize why the music from the cabin was playing so loudly, it was to cover up this piercing yodeling noise.

I pass through more of the plumes of frozen smoke and come to the back of the container where I stop dead. The world sways and jerks in an incredibly uncomfortable manner as I see Harry look in absolute horror at me. Like he's seen this before. In front of us is an impeccably constructed playpen. And inside it; blood. two inches thick. And in that blood? Two boys, one who is maybe three years old, at best, and the other maybe a year or two older at best. Both of them cry and wail in complete misery, bleeding profusely from their mouths and eyes, to which I soon realize is because their tongues and eyeballs have been cut out with surgical precision. Behind them is a large block of ice, with something encased within it.

And suddenly, I am in a different world.

_Close your eyes!_ A child screams and wails, brown hair, green eyes... who is this boy? I don't like him, make him leave.

Make him leave!

My lungs feel like I have suddenly sucked in fire and I start to breathe heavily, trying to expel that burning feeling, but to no avail, a wave of violent and hellish spasmodic coughs wrack my body, making me wobbly-kneed and clumsy.

"Dexter, it's alright!" Harry calls.

And I hear another voice. _It's alright, it's alright son_. Harry's voice? Why is he talking to that little wailing boy? Why is he hugging him? Who is that boy? What makes him special? But now it feels like I've been stepping on glass and I stumble backwards, thankfully away from that horrible, horrible, _blood_. Darkness creeps in from the corner of my eyes. My breathing becomes shallow, quick.

"Dex, don't worry! Breathe! _Breathe_!"

Daddy? Daddy? Is that you?

"I'm here, son," Harry says, reaching out towards me. You're not daddy! You're Harry! Not daddy, not daddy!

I hack and wheeze and glurck sound and my hands are covered in blood; disgusting _blood_. From the truck? No. Coppery taste. From mouth. Cough, cough. Handkerchief, stumble into frozen smoke. Wipe, wipe, wipe. I don't like this place, daddy.

"I know, you don't, Dex," Harry says from somewhere. Only it isn't Harry. It's daddy. Daddy-Harry?

"Dex, are you alright?" A soft voice calls out. Debra. Angel in true form. Holy halo of beauty and ring of love surround her. Cough. Wheeze. Blood! Inhale. No air. Inhale! Where's daddy? Harry? _Where's daddy_? "Dex!" Hand on my shoulder. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Embrace? She hugs me?

Calming. Calming.

The world rights itself long enough for me to see that Debs holds me in a hug, bringing herself close to the point where our bodies are pressed together tightly.

"Deb," I hear myself saying, nearly hyperventilating, "I... I gotta get out of here." I wipe my mouth and find excess blood smears onto my hands. I have to get out of here. Debs looks at my hand, which is outstretched away from her to keep from smearing blood on her, and nods, grasps my clean hand tightly and leads me out of the truck.

It is once I am back out into the humid night air that I realize that I must look like hell. There is most likely blood smeared on my face and hands, I'm sweaty all over, and Debra leads me like a kind woman would lead a catatonic child across the street. I even shiver. Where is Dark Dashing Dexter? Why is this crime scene so important?

And most of all: who was that boy?

* * *

><p>"Do you want to come up?" Debs asks as we exit my car, which she has insisted on taking the wheel of, "You know, until you're sure you can drive yourself home."<p>

I do my best to give her a brave smile, "I think I'll be fine, Debs," I say. Strangely, she appears to be disappointed by this, like Debra had wanted me to come upstairs with her. I stop for a moment and lean against the passenger-side door, still trying to understand what happened at the crime scene.

"What the fuck happened back there, Dex?" The brunette asks, moving to the side of the car I am leaning against and copies my action, standing right next to me. She gives me an expectant look, but it is glazed over with worry.

I am at a loss myself, "I don't know, Debs," I reply, "Probably was a panic attack."

"Yeah. That was fucked." What a simple statement. But that's all that needs to be said; that was fucked. And it was. Debra breathes out slowly, looking up at the stars with me.

"Were those kids-" I start to ask before Debs cuts me off:

"Yeah, they were Cherry's kids," she says, instinctively moving closer to me as if being next to one monster will help her work through the stress caused by the _corpus delicti _of an even bigger monster.

"That's life," I snort out rather cynically, but there is a point to it. I have seen all sorts of horrifying things all over the world; many of them were much worse than this, but why did those kids affect me so much?

I am so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost miss Deb's conflicted stare boring holes into my temples:

"That's what life is to you?" She asks, "Two kids get their tongues and eyes cut out and are left in a pool of their mother's blood, and _that's_ life?"

"Sad, but true," I say.

"Man," The brunette replies, "I don't know what it is you saw, but it must've fucked you up bad."

It's now my turn to stare at her, "What?" I ask.

"We've lived nearly the same lives, and yet we turned out so..." she pauses, likely unsure of how to continue, "... The only difference are those six years you were gone. Wherever it was you went..."

"Everything we do fucks us up," I say, deigning to use Debs's favorite four-letter word in a sentence.

We stare off into the dark night sky; here it seems like all the light pollution from the city just fades away, and all we're left with is inky darkness. Finally, after a long moment of staring, Debra moving ever-closer, speaks:

"You're right," she says.

"About what?"

She sneaks her hand into mine: "We're all just pawns."

I laugh.

"So, that's a no to coming up?" She asks hopefully, squeezing my palm tightly. I'll admit, in the mushy state that has Cancer Man Dexter has arrived at, I am tempted to spend time watching a movie with best friend Debra, but I can't spend anymore time with her. I need to think, to set my thoughts straight. And find another time to dispatch Father Donovan.

"I'm feeling better already, but thanks for the offer, Debs." I reply, "I just want to, you know, spend some down-time alone. Besides, Eliza's coming over later." I don't even know why I decide to lie, but I want to be able to get to think without _anyone_ interrupting my thoughts, and the topic of Eliza, for some strange reason, always makes an angry Debs docile, even gentle.

"Oh," she says, now sounding rather inappropriately dismayed for the situation. She makes it sound like I told her I curbstomped a Labradoodle, "Okay." She is quick to untangle her hand from mine, "See you tomorrow, Dexter." Debs finishes slightly woodenly, before walking inside her building.

That was a bizarre way to react.

I return to my apartment in a sort of stupor. Who was that boy in the blood? Why does he seem so familiar? But try as I might to wrack my brain for possible answers, the only thing that is put into my brain's outbox is that I overreacted like an idiot to a crime scene that should not bother someone like me, and that I need to get some sleep. But I don't sleep, I spend nearly half-an-hour in front of the fridge knocking that Barbie head around, its _thack thack_s on the refrigerator door simultaneously calming and infuriating.

Aside from reaching a rather bizarre state of Zen where I think about nothing, standing in front of my refrigerator door does me no good. I realize by then that I really _do_ need some sleep.

So I do go to sleep. And before long, I am swimming in the blackness. But the unease brought about by the blinded, screaming boys, yodeling their horrified little lives to hell, and the wailing child that Daddy-Harry came to pick up never leaves even into the waking hours of the morning.

* * *

><p>"Poor baby," Lila looks at me in mock-pity, "I would tell you I'm sorry, but I'd be unsure what I'd be apologizing for."<p>

I snort, "I wouldn't know either. It was all very strange."

It is the morning after my episode inside the Ice Truck. And by morning, I mean very early morning. It should take two to three hours to get to Key West, but we live in Miami, which is the Land of Perpetual Construction, and that means it usually takes closer to six hours. I wasn't feeling up to making my own breakfast this morning, but Lila is an early bird and called me earlier this morning to ask me out for breakfast; and since I never deny myself a good meal, I decide to follow through and meet her.

"So, what happened?" She asks.

I am unsure if I trust her enough to continue, "Uh..." I begin quite intelligently.

"Come on, Dexter," she snorts, "I can keep a secret." She pauses for a moment before continuing, "Fine, I'll tell you a secret about myself before you tell me. I was an addict."

"An addict?"

"Crystal," she replies perkily, brown eyes moving languidly over my form, "I started when I was sixteen. It's one of the reasons why my parents kicked me out of their house, and for five years, I was an addict. But here I am, eleven years after I was kicked out of my parents house, in Miami and completely sober."

"And with cancer," I quip lightly.

"How very insensitive," Lila drawls, "But we're here to talk about you."

"Are we now?"

For once, Lila's eyes convey something other than languid apathy as they roll around once in their respective sockets, "Yes. What really happened?"

I pause for a long moment, "I had a panic attack. At a crime scene."

"Ouch," she says sympathetically, "Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know," I reply, "Things like that never bother me, but something about it... it struck deep."

Lila gives me a strange look when I remain silent for a moment, so I content to question 'What?' and wait for her response:

"You seemed like you had more to say."

I sigh, "The truth is, I don't know why it bothered me so much. And I don't think I want to know."

* * *

><p>"Dex, are you sure you're good to go all the way to Key West?" Harry asks another time as I make my final preparations, "I can give you the day and send Batista and Sodoquist down there."<p>

I scoff lightly, "Has to be me, Lieutenant," I say, "I was the one tracking him on the wire, not Batista or Sodoquist. I know the guy better than anyone else in the station. If not me, then who?" Harry relents, realizing that I am the best man for the job.

"Just..." He sounds a touch different today than he does usually; Harry sounds _worried_, which should worry me. Harry is never worried without reason. "Watch out. What happened in that truck last night."

"Aw, did I worry you? How touching."

"Get out," he says sternly, albeit with a smile as I move to find the man's daughter lurking around my desk, which she has taken over:

"Debs," I say, "Let's go." She nods with a smile, gathering up some items and then we head out to my car with one final wave at the brunette's father.

The trip to Key West is always a long, torturous one, but having Debs around makes the suicidal ride a little bit less of a chore. Whenever the Mosers and Morgans joined together for a cookout or some such other gathering, it was custom for the children to listen to whatever music struck them as fantastic at the time. Now, on roadtrips, Debs makes a habit of singing to whatever's on the radio, and often forces me into doing the same. We do a rather stunning duet of Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now' among other songs and sit through the long lines of traffic, completely oblivious to the middle fingers being flung up our way.

In fact, I wave happily at a few of them and Debs gives them her best cheery smile whilst flashing her badge, which, of course, causes them to speed up in fear and zoom away from my terminal Celica.

We stop for a second breakfast-well, it's Debra's first, but I am, by nature, a very hungry man, so I do not complain-and I go into a McDonald's about ten miles from Key Largo to pick us up some of their breakfast menu. Five minutes later I come back out to find Debs playing Eric Carmen with her eyes closed on my car stereo. Naturally, I am disappointed. I do not want the sanctity of my pretty little car's stereo-on it's very last legs-being unnecessarily used by playing such filth, so I walk up to the brunette quietly, lean into the open window, and whisper softly into her ear:

"Is that Eric Carmen?"

Instantly, Debs's eyes shoot open and she jerks up, slamming her knee into the dash and biting back a cry of frustrated pain. She quickly scrabbles to the power button and punches it to turn off the stereo before whining out "Ow!" and grasping her knee.

"Thank you," I nod in gratitude as I hand her the McDonald's bag and walk around the front of the car to take my rightful position as head navigator and put in an old Pearl Jam album I have, to which Debs nods in approval, as if it makes up for the fact that I made her turn off Mister Carmen.

I know I will never understand her frenetic taste in music, so I don't try to.

Before long, the ordeal is done and we pull into Key West, which is a tourist attraction like the rest of South Florida. Another twenty minutes of searching, and we find the café we are supposed to meet 'Dmitri' at about twenty minutes earlier than expected. Given ample time to wait, Debs decides to ask me questions about our informant:

"So, who is this guy really?" She asks.

"His name is Nicholas Sokolov," I reply, "He was a Russian Mob-man. All sorts of stuff from drugs to murder; I helped with the case when I had thought I might go to Narcotics over Homicide, but the case continued even after I was brought into the Department because of those Ricin Poisonings."

"Hah, I remember that!" Debs exclaims, "I was still in patrol then. Heard no one could crack that case but then Nolan from the DEA, as well as that guy from Narcotics had gotten a drop on some deal, and then _you_ caught him on the wire."

"Wasn't enough to catch him, though," I say, a little miffed at my inability to put Sokolov behind bars. I had thought I might kill him for weeks afterwards, but ultimately decided it would be too difficult to kill a mobster and too conspicuous even if I had managed to pull him off.

"So, he's like... the one that got away?" Debs jokes, punching my shoulder lightly.

I snort, "Yeah, he's that special someone."

And maybe one day, I can give him that special treatment which that special someone deserves. Finally, a black SUV pulls up to the café, one that, no doubt, houses my special little friend. I nod to Debs, saying 'He's here.'; she nods and readies herself as well.

We both step out of the car simultaneously, close the door simultaneously, cross the street simultaneously, and sit in in chairs at an empty table simultaneously. Out from the SUV steps two Agents whom flank a tall, Slavic-looking man with high-eyebrows and prominent cheekbones. His eyes are beset with deep bags, as if he hasn't slept in weeks, and Sokolov's head is considerably balder than the last time I saw him.

"Detective Moser!" The man exclaims jovially, "How nice to see you again, my old friend! How has Homicide been treating you? A lot of solved murders, I hope?"

I often say that I am incapable of human emotions, but I just as often feel like I'm lying to myself when I claim so because I feel anger quite naturally as any human can. But I have coached myself to nearly constant apathy in even the most stressful of situations, so it is easy to bury the anger that radiates out from the Dark Passenger and into my body. Debra, on the other hand, looks about ready to throw a punch, bless her soul!

"Quite a few actually; I even put away a few of your old associates. They're poisonous to society, you know that?" I banter lightly; Sokolov waves his hand in complete agreement:

"I know!" He says, clearly understanding the implications behind the word 'poisonous', "The absolute worst!" He looks to Debs, "Ah, but where are my manners? I am Dmitri, and you are?"

"Officer Debra Morgan," Debs says in a rather cranky manner, fixing one of her Harry-stares on the man, who seems unfazed. But to me, it's like the Virgin Mary gazing upon Judas, a picture of utter solemnity and beauty.

"And you are here for information."

"Yes," she continues.

"About the man who destroyed Carlos Guerrero's family."

"Yes. About that man." I say, emulating the brunette's flat tone.

"Good. I can help there," Sokolov says quite languidly before sobering himself, "The man showed up around two years ago. No one knows who he is, he is just a known killer. Apparently he loves the idea of change."

"Change?" Debs scoffs in derision, "What, like fucking pennies?" I shoot her a glance that tells her, very politely, to shut up and listen.

"No, just like fire. Everything is dynamic; he's a man after your own heart, Detective."

I nod with a smile, "He seems to be."

I like to think of the world as being dynamic, confused, ever-changing, ever-evolving; it's the only way it makes sense to me. And this world has certainly gotten dynamic. My head-chucking friend dumping bodies over the Miami Heat Logo, and then, this guy. This killer intrigues me more and more by the minute, and Sokolov does nothing to curtail such unhealthy obsession:

"The world is completely random, chance and change are all you've got," Sokolov winks, "I surmise, then, he's not quite like you. You always were willing to go too far for Justice. In any case, he started doing work for the Russians over a year ago. It started out small, simple protection racket and such, but, well, you see where he's gotten."

"And is there any way to contact this man?"

"Not that I am aware of," Sokolov responds, rubbing his bald head, "People are saying he's working with the Irishmen now. You'll have to find someone more connected to the Irish Mob; I am afraid I will do you no good past this point."

I heave a sigh; Sokolov cannot be pushed any further from this point; he obviously wants to keep his name out of anything that might turn up and is willing to tell me only so much as he thinks I may need to know.

"Thank you, Dmitri." I say, standing up and nodding to the DEA Agents.

"No, thank you, Detective. It is nice seeing a friendly face every once in a while. It reminds you that some things always stay the same." He finishes, before nodding and standing up. Debs and I turn gracefully away from the man and do not look back even as we reach my car. Debs slams the door shut behind her and grunts:

"That was a fucking _huge_ waste of time!" She punches the dashboard viciously and ends up nursing her fingers whilst grimacing. I take her hand, as a good surrogate brother would, and give it a once over before rubbing it lightly. She smiles softly and mutters out a "thank you, Dexter." to which I wave her off:

"What did you expect us to get?" I ask, "He's not our rat. He only wants to tell us as much as what keeps him from getting caught."

I notice a woman walking towards our car, and it turns out to be Agent Nolan. She wears a demure smile as she leans against the frame of the car, her face peeking through the open window:

"Dexter, Dexter," she shakes her head, "You're still driving this piece of crap?"

"Daisy, Daisy," I mock her, "I still am. What're you doing down here?"

"I gotta keep 'Dmitri' safe until you're out of Key West, DEA stuff, no biggie," she smirks, "but I heard about the Irish Mob rumor. There's a guy in your Narcotics Department who has some experience with the Irish Mob."

I feel my stomach sink like a lead weight as Debs looks like she's interested, "You don't mean-" I begin, but Daisy cuts me off:

"Yeah. I mean _him_."

* * *

><p>"Dexter Moser! Long time no fucking see, brother!" The man's Bostonian accent cuts across the quiet Department HQ like a hot knife through butter. Or a power saw through my skull. "Heard you made Detective, good for you!"<p>

"Thanks Quinn," I respond in a humble manner, clearly uncomfortable with the man's ingratiating manner of speaking.

This is Officer Joseph Quinn, who transferred from Boston a good six years back. He is a narcotics officer and a pain of the highest caliber. He is white, with an average build, his hair is almost always slicked back, and he remains clean-shaven for the most part. He is also loud, boisterous, brash, often irrational, and stupid on more than one occasion, but he's a good guy. In general, we work well together for the very reason that we are so different. He was my partner on the Sokolov Case and we were often called 'Jekyll and Hyde' for our very different personas.

To this day, I'm not sure which one of us is Jekyll and which one is Hyde.

"So what can I do for you?" He asks in a loud, magnanimous way that slightly, _ever-so-slightly_, makes me want to jump out the fifth story window of this building and hope I drown in waters below the dockside entrance.

"The Irish Mob."

He grins, "What about 'em?"

"I need to know if there's been anyone new doing jobs for them; someone who might be tied to the Guerrero killings."

Quinn nods, "Yeah, I heard about that. Fucked up shit," he says, "you think the guy who killed his wife and daughter is working for the Irishmen?" The Irish Mob came to Miami in the early 1980's to get in on the lucrative cocaine business going on in the city. Twenty years later and they are now a very well-known group of mafiosi.

"Not exactly," I reply, "He definitely destroyed that family on orders from the Ruskis, but I hear that he's now moved onto bigger and better things with the Irishmen."

"Alright, one favor. And only because you saved my ass when we were stuck on that case," Quinn replies, "I'll see if I can scrounge some of my old contacts in and around the mob and ask them a few questions about this guy and I'll get back to you in two or three days."

"Sounds perfect," I reply, saluting him with two fingers before heading back down the elevators to the Homicide Department, where I am given something absolutely beautiful:

Free time.

Ready or not, Jamie Jaworski, here I come.

* * *

><p>Unlike the police, where we have to waste our time waiting for warrants, I do not need City Hall behind me. So long as I am assured that I will not be disturbed and be turned from predator to prey by my soon-to-be victim, I can break and enter with little physical trouble, and I don't have a conscience to burden me with moral or mental anguish. However, judging exactly <em>when<em> said soon-to-be victim will be out of his humble abode is not an exact science, especially when I've decided to take a late lunch. Debs wanted to come with, but I don't think she'd enjoy the meal I have in mind, so I left her at the precinct looking mighty crestfallen. In any case, to avoid the awkward situation that might arise if I walk in Jaworski's house whilst he's, I don't know, masturbating, I find myself waiting outside the hotel where the slimy little man works. He's incredibly easy to spot once you find the hysterically ugly tattoo of some sort of dancing demon with a pitchfork; obviously no one has ever taught him how to blend in.

Jamie Jaworski is a simple man. As far as I can tell, his only source of income comes from parking cars for rich tourists, who are quite often women. Or, rather, girls. Many of them are around seventeen to nineteen, right at that age when girls are 'best'. And the last girl who had gone missing coincidentally checked in at this hotel. And then I noticed other young women who checked into this hotel have disappeared as well.

Jamie Jaworski, who has two counts of battery, one of possession, and a sexually abusive past, seemed an easy pick. And out here, there's an even bigger white light shining down upon him, as if God himself is telling me that this is the man I must kill.

He ogles a young woman, albeit too old for his taste; she looks a little bit younger than Debs, maybe twenty-five. But I've seen by now that he will be parking cars for some time yet, and that's more than enough time for a cop to get a warrant signed off by judge. But it's a good thing I don't care for them.

Exactly twenty-three minutes and thirteen seconds later I am standing in front of Jamie's incredibly poor house. It is in a low-income area of Coconut Grove; the irony of this is that only half a mile away, I saw the homes of the mega-rich, putting up their walls to keep the poor out of their world and to keep themselves out of the real world. I can, for a moment, step into the mind of Jaworski; it's admirably easy when you try. Not even a mile away from his home are the mega-rich who ignore the absolute wretchedness the impoverished lived in. I'm sure he was struck with righteous anger, and might even feel justified in murdering innocent girls because their apathy is just as bad as walking up to him and spitting in his face. He might even think himself some sort of champion of the proletariat.

It's a _very_ easy way to live life.

But I won't be beguiled by such tomfoolery. Even with the rich and the poor on either side, Jaworski is still in the middle, sharing his home with all sorts of mosquitoes and what must be a rabid dog, though I wouldn't be surprised if it is usually sane; animals, for some reason, find it easy to go haywire when I am around.

Maybe they can sniff something off me that humans can't.

Even after I pick the lock of the door, I tread lightly, cautiously, and keep the dog trapped in another room away from Jaworski's computer. Despite being impoverished, Jaworski's desktop appears to be made of a different sort of mettle, but I have no trouble logging onto his computer whilst bypassing the password protection he's put on it.

There isn't much, just constant notes and references and an encrypted file that is only labeled: 'SBS'. I circumvent said encryption and find that what is inside is a random assortment of BDSM films from a website called 'Scream Bitch, Scream', and I make a quick detour by using the magical internet entity known only as 'Google' to track the website where the videos came from. It, rather dully, turns out to be named screambitchscream . com. I had been hoping for something more extravagant, but I suppose rapefilmsRus was already taken.

I force myself to go through a few of the videos before I find something... significant. A video of a woman being raped. And she looks surprisingly like the missing persons case I tied to Jaworski. Now that is either the king of all coincidences, or my friend here has dug himself a very wet grave.

And then, the final stone in Jamie Jaworski's trash-bag comes: the man raping said victim has a very distinctive tattoo nearby his right elbow. It is a hideous tattoo, apparently of some dancing demon with a pitchfork. I pause the video and stare at that tattoo in one glorious moment where everything comes together. His needs are evolving. He's well on the fast-track; there's no return from there. An epiphany. An epiphany that tells me that Dexter has a new tablemate. And I want to play with that tablemate of mine.

I really, really, do.

But, my fake life comes first!

And so, I find myself at Miami Metro once again, awaiting Masuka to get that large chunk of Ice that was in the Ice Truck out of storage so we can see what it is behind the frozen, fogged over ice.

In fact, just about the entire department waits to see what it might be, and Masuka starts adding a chemical that I don't recognize to melt away the ice quickly. Harry stands to the right of me, Debs to the left, Batista in front... even Doakes shows up and he hates crowds! Masuka refrains from making smart comments about Debra in the presence of a rather grim-looking Harry and simply does his job in silence. Everyone watches in silence, but I think I'm the only one who watches with that sense of hushed awe because I'm intrigued to see what is encased in that block of frozen rock.

And in complete silence, everyone sees the form of five rectangular-shaped objects begin to show through. It doesn't take me long to decipher what those foggy shapes are.

"Fingers," I say quietly, "Wasn't Sherry Taylor missing her fingers as well?"

"We can do fingerprint matching, see if these fingers match the ones on her left hand," Masuka replies, further melting the Ice until we can see the blood red nail polish on the fingers; as if they had been dipped in blood.

"What the fuck is this guy thinking?" Debs asks, and Harry doesn't even turn to admonish her:

"I don't know," he says, looking worried in a sober sort of manner.

But I stand there in complete, wondrous, woeful, awe. Staring at some fingers. But for some reason, those blood red nails remind me of someone or something. I don't know what it is, but it feels like some major deja vu.

"What's he trying to say?" Batista questions, but we all have the feeling that he already knows the answer.

I don't know, but I'm certain he's stepping up his game. He knows for sure that I am on his trail now, and here he's left me the first clue in what might hopefully be a long and fruitful experience. I don't understand for the life of me why people like such order, and talk of fanciful notions like peace. It is here, in that ice block, where man should naturally be. Conflict runs the world because it changes the world, because a dynamic world is stronger than a static world.

Much like the static person is weaker than the dynamic, learning child.

"Moser," Harry asks, "You got anything on this?"

"Nope," I say, almost breathlessly. It is slightly sickening to see Dark Deadly Dexter descend into histrionics and breathlessness when in the presence of a block of ice, but this man deserves all my admiration. He's an artist. He's what I could have been. If I hadn't my own code, I might've killed nearly indiscriminately. It would be... freeing.

Embracing the chaos, letting everything that hides out for a big meal. Life would be good and easy, but life is never simple, as the old adage goes.

He's evolving, too. Just like Jaworski. He's on the fast-track as well.

It's only a few hours later that I learn just how much my new friend is evolving when I see Masuka examining a slide with blood on it. I stop in my tracks; that blood slide looks so much like one of my little trophies!

"What's that, Vince?" I try to remain calm whilst asking this. For a moment, one _small_ moment, I fear that somehow, someone found one of my tablemates, but then I realize that no one would've let me get this far into the building if they had been looking into my extracurricular activities, and I calm significantly.

He doesn't look up when he responds, "Found this in the Ice Truck. Just some blood on a slide; it's the hooker's." The 'hooker', I realize quickly, is Sherry Taylor.

"Ah, okay," I say quickly, heading towards my office, "How are those kids?"

"Shitty," he says, "Their eyes and tongues were cut out; I wouldn't be surprised if they're still in the hospital."

Now that the obligatory 'how is so-and-so doing?' is done with, I can take my leave, "I'm checking out," I say, still a little too jumpy and I curse myself for that, "See you tomorrow."

Masuka shrugs and grunts in response and I shut the door to my office behind me quickly, heaving out a sigh of relief. That slide of blood wasn't one of mine, but, then, that still leaves the question of _why_ there is a blood slide in Masuka's hands. Does this mean that my friend knows the full extent of what I am? This could be dangerous.

Harry once told me during my teenage years, when I needed Life-coach Harry to help me through the pressures (of which I have kept the full extent of from him to this very day) of teenage life, to keep myself disinterested, to keep myself from getting too involved in other people's affairs. And as much as this new little back-and-forth with the Tamiami Slasher interests me, it falls under the realms of 'getting involved'. What to do? What to do, indeed?

But before I can find an answer, Debs is already asking for me to take her home. Sometimes I wonder why she doesn't just buy a car, or take one from the impound, but I nonetheless comply.

* * *

><p>"Debra tells me you had a freak-out at a crime scene yesterday," Brian says, taking a gulp of his beer and smiling at me, "Do you want to talk about it?"<p>

I shrug, "You and Debs talked to each other?" I question, whilst placing a lightly-seasoned steak on the skillet in front of me. I would rather be out under the full, fat, beautiful moon slashing into Jamie Jaworski and feel all this unnecessary tension slide away, really, all this stress can't be good for the soul!

Well, I guess it's a good thing I don't have one.

Anyway, while I _should_ be out sending Jamie to the bottom of the ocean, big brother Brian decided that he wanted to spend some time with his younger sibling because of the trying ordeal I had last night. Fortunately, every Thursday night, which tomorrow night is, like clockwork, Jaworski goes to a closed construction site to steal copper plumbing, so I'll have a very real chance of catching him tomorrow. For tonight, however, I must be the dutiful, wounded brother who needs a shoulder to lean on, rather than one whom separates a shoulder from a humerus.

"Just because she's your best friend, brother, doesn't mean she can't be my friend," Brian reminds me. "So, are you going to keep being weird about Miss Morgan or are you going to talk to me about what's really bothering you?"

I shake my head, "Nothing's bothering me."

Usually I am a good liar, but that has never been true in the presence of Brian. I suppose it's because of the similar DNA (at least, that's the only way I _can_ explain it) or something that allows Brian to see me more clearly than most other people can. I am a truly good fibber when it comes to Mom, Dee, Harry, Batista, even Debs. But in front of Brian, every little lie sounds like it has been exaggerated to cover a mile of secrets rather than a foot.

I'm glad, in some ways, that Brian was never as close with Harry as I was, or he might've ended up a cop. And considering my track record of lying around him, I may as well put myself in a hangman's noose and have him lead me to the station in that. Thankfully, however, Brian decided the right profession for him was Medicine, to which I attribute as the universe repaying me for the good karma I engendered whilst refraining from killing that one dog when I was thirteen.

"You're a bad liar," Brian says, after taking a long sip of his beer, before holding the bottle up, "You want one?"

"You know I don't like beer," I respond, "How do you want yours?" I ask, pointing at the steak.

"Medium'll be fine," Brian replies, "So, what happened?"

I sigh in a slightly melodramatic manner; why does everyone suddenly want to talk to me about my feelings?

"We found the Ice Truck that Debs and I were looking for," I say, but Brian stops me to ask the question:

"Who came up with that idea, you or Debra?"

"Me, but it doesn't really matter," I continue, my brother nods in a nonchalant manner, "Debs dragged me along to find the truck, and we found it on Ocean Drive. Really, I've got to give the killer points for boldness. We waited until most of the rest of the homicide department were on scene before going inside. And inside-"

"Inside?" Brian repeats after I trail off, apparently interested.

"There were two kids; their eyes and tongues were cut right out of their faces. There was blood all over the ground as well. I don't know why, but it reminded me of _something_. It didn't make all that much sense to me, I only know that I felt better once Debs got me out of there."

"So what do you think the killer was trying to say?" My brother questions as I flip the steaks and wipe my hands on a towel.

I shrug, "He's trying to tell us something, but I don't know what yet. He's evolving."

"Evolving?"

"The kills, the cuts, the meaning of everything has changed. He has a purpose now," To play his little game with me, "And I don't know what the meaning is yet. But, hey, we'll find out. You're in no danger."

"I wouldn't presume so," Brian mutters, "After all, he only kills hookers, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you know how to catch him?" My brother asks.

"How?" I ask, wanting to hear what wanton suggestion my doctor sibling gives for catching a criminal that his detective brother doesn't already know.

"Become like him," I raise an eyebrow, prompting him to explain further, "Evolve. When you get into his frame of mind, won't be easier to understand the killer?"

Believe me, Brian, I already know where he's coming from.

"You might have a point there, brother," I drawl in the same monotone manner that Brian uses to greet me and we both chuckle, before we set the steaks aside and sit to watch the news. I know, aren't we the most absolute exciting set of brothers?

"...The night watchman, Tony Tucci is still missing. Police have not yet confirmed who the Tamiami Slasher is, or when the killings may stop..." Brian raises an eyebrow:

"Tamiami Slasher, what a vulgar name."

I shrug, "Serial killers are vulgar people; I guess it's karma."

"Ha," my brother scoffs, "karma."

* * *

><p>Try as I might to ignore it, my brother has a point. And it's all I can think about as I move on, like a shadow, through the next day at the Office. I file blood reports, and jot down a few obligatory notes on my Guerrero killer, but I am at a deadlock until Quinn can get back to me. I send a few obligatory jokes Masuka's way, have an obligatory conversation about the Tamiami Slasher and some Night Watchman with Batista, go to an obligatory crime scene and have obligatory lunch with Debra.<p>

But, through all the distractions, I can only see that crying child wailing for his daddy. And Brian's words repeat: 'Evolve'; my very own 'Nevermore!'. And I try to retreat into my head, try to understand _what_ and _why_ the Tamiami Slasher is trying to tell me, but Debs will have none of that, as she decides to pour out her wellspring of overjoyed happiness onto me as I try to contemplate why I should evolve; why I should understand this killer:

"Dex," she grins, biting into a burger, "what do you think? Matthews and Dad gave it to me, and LaGuerta had to sit there and watch, and wear that shit-eating grin while Dad let me take it."

"Little Debbie's on Homicide, now," I say, holding her new Homicide Badge and trying very hard to sound interested, "Feel any different to be a full-fledged Homicide Officer?"

"Well, it's great to know that I won't have to go back to wearing those thongs; they're fucking uncomfortable and it feels like my crotch is being strangled by a really weak perso-"

"I think that's quite enough," I cut her off, and she smiles bashfully.

We return to eating in silence while I contemplate the possibility. Could I evolve to understand the Tamiami Slasher? Could I evolve to figure out who that child is? Do I even want to?

"So what do you think about this Tucci guy?" I am so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss what Debs asks me.

"What Tucci guy?" I ask. Debs raises an eyebrow:

"Wow, Dad's right. You really do get lost in work sometimes," she says, chomping on her burger, "Tony Tucci's the night watchman at the Triple A-" The Triple A is the American Airlines Arena, for the uninformed, "-he's been missing since yesterday. LaGuerta's saying that he might be our killer, but I don't think so."

Well, of course, I know that. There's no way my new friend could be a barely illiterate night watchman, but why does _she _think he isn't? Batista mentioned a video tape that seemed to incriminate the man, so why is it that Debra thinks otherwise?

"Why not?" I question.

Debs grin stretches to Cheshire Cat-like proportions, "So, I was out talking to some old contacts earlier this morning, and they said that they saw Cherri get into a wood-paneled station wagon and she never came back. Now I did some looking up on Tucci, and he drives a Corolla, not the fucking Griswolds' station wagon!"

"Could be stolen," I suggest, "We already established the Ice Truck was stolen."

Debs sighs, knowing I would say this, "Call it a feeling, Dex. I looked at that video Batista was talking about and looked more like he was taking orders than placing the body parts himself. He kept looking off-camera as if he were being directed by someone else; like, someone who was pointing a fucking gun at his head from the stands."

"Okay," I nod.

She seems surprised, "Okay? Nothing else? No, "let's look at this rationally, Debs'?"

"Why would there be?" I ask, "I don't think that night watchman was capable of this sort of butchering either. It takes some technical know-how of where and how to cut up bodies like our friend does. Tucci didn't even go to college, from what Angel told me."

"See, that's what I'm saying! It doesn't fucking add up!"

"Then, take it up with Harry," I suggest, taking long gulp of water, "He'll listen if you present a good enough case."

"That's the problem. Dex, you saw me at that briefing, I can barely even keep myself from pissing myself out of nervousness, let alone present a well-thought out case as to why LaGuerta's full of shit. If I go up to Dad fumbling over my sentences like a fucking idiot, there's no way he'll take my word over hers. She'll just browbeat me until I run with my tail between my legs."

"So, what do you want me to do about it?" I ask. She has jitters; she has to get over them if she wants to be a good cop.

"Can you, I dunno, help me?"

"With what?"

"I don't know, how to fucking _talk_ to these people? See, you know I always get smarter when I'm talking to you, but the second I've got to tell LaGuerta to get bent, I just clam up and my brain turns to shit." She's pleading with me. I hate it when people beg. Aside from my victims, of course, but that's a whole different matter. And then, for the second time in three days, Debra gives me those large, pleading, doe-eyes that would take a much stronger man than I to say 'No' to:

"Fine, but it'll cost you fifty bucks a night."

"Get fucked, Dex," Debs jokes, and I flash a smile at her as well:

"Gladly, but that'll take up time that I could be spending teaching you not to vomit all over Harry when talking to him."

"Fine, after work?" She asks.

"No, not tonight; I have a personal project to work on. You can wait _one_ day, can't you?"

Deb gives me a silly pout, "I can, but I don't want to."

"You're a darling," I thank her as we finish the last scraps of our meal.

* * *

><p>It's nighttime. Beautiful, glorious, nighttime. I had not been totally able to connect Jaworski to his murders, even with the tattoo on that rapist, but I would need more evidence to be truly convinced of his guilt as I couldn't make out the face. I suppose I can take solace in that I am 98 percent sure that it is Jamie Jaworski, but I tend to be rather Cartesian on such matters: if I can doubt it; I do not do it. But the moon is out there, calling to me, and I try to tell it that I am not ready, that there is much more to do before I can, but the fat, full moon won't listen. It wants Jaworski. The Dark Passenger wants Jaworski.<p>

And by extension, _I_ want Jaworski.

Suddenly, I am in my car, driving towards Coconut Grove, and in less than twenty minutes, I sit outside Jaworski's home in my little black Celica, watching, waiting. This is a whole new game. I feel weak and intoxicated, high on the Passenger's drugs. And how I feel is unimportant because the Passenger has coiled around me, encased me in living, organic armor that is now driving me in a direction that inevitably leads to Jamie's death, and he feels strong, and cold, and coiled, and ready for anything. He bubbles out from every Dexter-pore there is, covering me, enabling me, encouraging me until me is we.

We found him only a month or two ago, and decided that Mike Donovan was oh-so-much-better to deal with. But now we know the grave error we made. We wanted to wait. How very foolish of us. We cannot wait anymore than a man a trapped in the desert cannot drink life-giving water he finds. How very, very, _very_ wrong of us.

How wrong of idiot Dexter to deny his black-eyed angel a chance to fly with him! We are better than that. We will not let this happen again. We will evolve. Never, never, never, will this happen again.

But how to deal with that dog? Jaworski is taking too long to leave his home and we want him very, very badly. And that dog may pose trouble.

But our prayers are answered as we see Jaworski leave his home with what appears to be bolt cutters. And he enters his car. Beautiful. We follow him at a distance. Not terribly hard to do. He finds his way to another construction site somewhere not too far from his home. We knew that he was making money off snuff films of poor, just out of high school girls, but we do not care. We know that doesn't matter. It is all just a construct. To keep from getting caught. All that matters now is blood, blood, _blood_! No one will mourn those girls and we certainly won't mourn the loss of Jamie, but for perhaps not being able to stretch his murder out into eternity.

We have no idea how to do this right. There is no kill room, or duct tape, or polyethylene sheeting. All we have are our knives, garrote, and Etorphine, should we really need it. But that doesn't matter. We don't need to know how to do things. We just _do_ things.

So we park a little ways away from the construction site. Fortunately, there are no cameras to speak of, otherwise Jaworski wouldn't have chosen this place. We follow him into the building, we find a makeshift table and discarded rubber sheeting to place Jaworski upon. We find all these things whilst Jaworski cuts away happily at copper pipes above us, thinking he's in for his next big score of cash. We chuckle lightly. He has _no_ idea. We shift our bag of tricks onto the other shoulder and set it down, readying the garrote wire after we finish preparing the makeshift room and stalk up the stairs behind Jaworski, where he still snips away happily at the copper pipes and wires.

And a strange and alien feeling runs through us. We are naked, this is not how we are used to doing things and one must wonder why we are doing this. But we know it is because the world is collapsing and an ice age is coming where there will be no more bodies to take or graves to make. In that abyss, what will our solace be. When we can no longer do what it is that makes us whole? And we are convinced. This is not because we want to do it. It is because we _have_ to do it. We must evolve in a way that we haven't before. An Ice Age is coming, a day where WE can no longer be so daring, so beautiful, so free and unfettered because the world is changing around us. It is narrowing, constricting, and people, people bind us to themselves. One day, there will be no exit, so we _must_ take this time or face the possibility of never doing it again.

So we stop thinking. We stop trying to figure out what to do. And we just _do_.

We look upon Jaworski, copper wire and piping laid at his feet. He pulls out more wiring and snips away at the piping with the bolt cutters. He is not trying to be quiet. After all, who would come upon this place to find him stealing some old wiring. And he certainly is not expecting someone like us. We wait in the stairwell as his large, awkward, trundling footsteps come this way towards us. We slink back into the shadows, and he passes right by us without so much as noticing. We follow him down to the second floor, softly, quietly.

He walks in on the room that was not there when he first came in and his eyes land right on a picture of a still we took from his rape videos. He gasps slightly, which is turned into an unattractive 'gurck' sound as our little noose slips around his throat and we pull until he passes out.

Fifteen minutes later, when we are ready for him, we wake up Jaworski and watch with glee as he struggles against his bindings, the copper wiring he had planned on making a score on. His eyes finally focus on us and we smile wryly:

"Don't move and don't make a sound unless we tell you to," we tell him in that cold-dead voice only we can muster. We take a pair of tin snips from our bag and move closer to him as he shakes his head:

"Hey, man, don't do this-" We slap him across the face.

"What did we tell you?" As to punish him, we use the tin snips and cut off his right index finger. Blood does not spurt out, but it leaks in this awfully grotesque and beautiful manner. Jaworski grunts and moans like a wild animal and we realize the fun has begun.

"Did you?" We point at all the pictures of the girls he raped once he has calmed. We are sure of his guilt; we simply want to know if _he _is.

"Whaddaya talkin' 'bou-" He is silenced as a gloved hand punches him in the face, shattering the bridge of his nose on contact.

"Let's talk, man-to-man," we say.

He makes a disgusting, wet, 'glagh' noise as blood seeps out from his nose, "'Bout what?"

"Hmm... how about tourists?"

"I dun... I dunno what'cha talkin' 'bout." Normally we would threaten to cut an eyelid off here, but we feel so intoxicated that we slice off an ear with a scalping knife instead. For a moment, we think he's gone into shock, unable to believe that we just relieved him of half his sense of his hearing. We drop his ear into a bucket to make it altogether very real for him. His eyes widen to unbelievable heights and he moans and grunts and thrashes wildly and we laugh, a long, hysterical, happy laugh.

"I think you do," We say happily, wiping the blood on the scalping knife onto his left cheek.

"You, you fucking took my ear," he whimpers, as if trying to wrap his head around it. We poke him in the eyes. Hard. He squeezes his eyes out and grunts again.

We smile a transcendent little smile: "You've got another," we state lightly, as if we're telling a child who lost his favorite toy that he's got another just as good, "Now. Did you do this." It is not a question. We want his answer. "Are these girls tourists you killed?"

He doesn't answer, we cut off another finger and ask again, albeit more gently than last time.

But he will not answer. We fear we may have caused him too much pain, but that makes us even angrier. So we set to cause him even more pain. There is a sense of euphoria that builds from our legs to our spine, to our head as we move ever closer, cutting away at this, severing at that, until we are loaded with dopamine. There is a high we feel, and that causes up to be sloppy because we cut in the wrong place and too much blood comes out too fast.

But he is still alive; he is still alive to answer our questions:

"The tourists. Did. You. Kill. Them." Every word is emphasized in the most gentle, unassuming manner that only a monster could assume.

"Fuck! Fuck!" Is all the dumb, worthless waste of a man has been reduced to.

"Tell me!" We nearly scream, stabbing into his thigh, taking care to avoid the femoral artery.

"Yes!" He screams out at last.

We nod in a patient, understanding manner, "How many?" We ask, stroking his left cheek as we cut into the right cheek with a scalpel and take a little bit Jamie Jaworski's fractured soul with us back home. He doesn't respond in a timely manner so we take his left eye with the aforementioned scalpel and dissect it on his chest, watching the aqueous humor drip out all over his torso and into the many cuts and wounds we've inflicted.

"How many?" We repeat.

"Five of them," he says finally, in a cracked and dry whimper of a voice. "But I'm not sorry. They were beautiful. I'm not sorry."

We sigh melodramatically, "Too few of us ever are." We stuff a rag into his mouth and try to recapture the rhythm, the magic of a few moments ago, but I am brought to a screeching halt as I see something move out of the corner of my eye. I am so surprised by it that what should have been a small, stinging cut to the throat turns into one that severs the jugular vein and all the joy is lost as he bleeds out too quickly.

I turn to see a flash of camera and a dark figure run out of the room and down the stairs. I know that I should chase after this man, but for a long moment I stand rooted to the spot, thunderstruck. I hear the start of a car and it drives away into the night. If whoever took that picture turns it into the police, I'm finished. But, suddenly, something far more pressing comes to my attention.

Sirens.

Police sirens are wailing in the distance. No doubt Debs and Harry are in one of those cars that ring out blindly into the night sky. My phone rings from inside my pocket and I know instinctively that it is Debra calling me over to a new crime scene. My own. I don't answer.

I have to get out of here. I can't risk taking Jaworski with me, and I certainly don't have enough time to cut him up. I know I haven't left any prints or hairs at the scene of the crime and I know I haven't left anything on the victim. So I grab my knives and my bag and I rush outside towards my little car, still wearing the white silk mask I've become so used to. Off the premises of the building, I find my car half a mile away, which I reach in nearly Olympic time. I am covered in blood, so I strip off my shirt and replace it with a spare, heading towards my Bay Harbor Island home.

I reach home in fifteen minutes by using all possible highway routes I can and quickly set to washing myself. The phone rings again, and I know it's Debs again, but I ignore it and content to stare at my shower head.

What came over me there? I had taken a terrible risk. No tools, no preparation, just plain murder. I was begging to be caught. But I have to admit, it felt _good_. So, so, _good_! I could have been caught for sure, I _have _been seen, but something... something was so perfect about that exchange. I had never felt so good in my life before.

Is this what evolution is? Well. I have to survive my first test, and evolve further. I cannot stay as this blind monster rampaging throughout the city; this one night has already taught me that. If I can throw off the police; if I can survive the next few days, I can truly change and become something better than this, and become something better than the monster going through the motions as I was before. I am unchained, unfettered, but I need something to latch on to. One cannot survive with absolute freedom, I realize as I shut off the shower and look for a new gray henley and a new pair of black jeans, so I will have to chain myself. If one evolves forever outwards, as I just tonight, I will be caught. I need to be more careful, so I must chain my freedom ever so slightly. I cannot be the monster without morals that it seems the Tamiami Slasher wants me to be, or I will be swallowed by the world.

Debs calls again, and this time, I answer:

"Moser," I say.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ Dex, I've called you at least ten fucking times!" It was three, Debra, don't exaggerate, "Never mind. There's a fucked-up crime scene down here in The Grove; Dad and I need you down here. Okay?"

"Okay, I'll be there in thirty."

Debra hangs up. I walk back into the kitchen and notice something that wasn't on the ground when I came home. There is a small piece of photo paper on the ground right in front of the door. I walk up to it and look at it quizzically, noting it's face-down. I flip the paper over to see a picture of myself standing over the meaty husk that was Jamie Jaworski. I smile grimly, looking at the photo for a long time before I find a lighter and begin to burn it.

This was my friend. He's testing whether I can do the evolution or not. But I can. I just have to overcome this next test. And in a way, I'm slightly thankful that it is the Tamiami Slasher testing me; I close the door to my apartment and lock it, because sooner or later, one day, I will be faced with a real struggle to survive. One day, my body of work will be found and I will not have anyone to guide me.

I've known the day when I would be forced for the first time to turn against the Police Department would come. I've known for a long time.

But that doesn't make it any less surreal. This life is all I have, and I would do anything to keep from losing it. But this was coming, it always comes when you set yourself against the law.

I guess it's karma.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>BOOM! What did you think? Leave me a review on what you thought about this chapter, and, as always, thanks for reading! Hope you keep doing so.

Geist.

P.S.: From now on, opening quotes will not be done by real people, but rather what characters say within the chapter that emphasizes the entire point of said chapter.


	7. Bodysnatchers

**Summary: **Two-part chapter. Harry lets Debra take point on the very case that could lead to Dex's downfall. Matthews tells the press that he believes Tony Tucci is the Killer, against Harry's advice. Dexter attends therapy sessions with a psychiatrist after the higher-ups learn about his panic attack at the Ice-Truck crime scene. Rita's ex-husband is released from jail due to overcrowding, and Dexter finds some friends in high places.

**Down on the Upside**

* * *

><p><em>"By us or by them, everyone gets got."<em>

-Debra Morgan

* * *

><p><strong>'Bodysnatchers'<strong>

* * *

><p>There's something surreal and disconcerting about walking up to your own crime scene with a detective's badge around your neck and a service pistol at your side, and watching your colleagues see a side of you that you'd never have expected them to see. And what's worse, they see you at your most absolutely deplorable. Even some of Unis, who are usually all smiles at the most disconcerting crime scenes look queasy and have a slight green tinge to their faces.<p>

I pass through the Police Tape; I did not bring doughnuts for this situation, partly because I wanted to be there to see the faces of my colleagues should they have already found out who the murderer is, and partly because I don't think anyone would _want_ a doughnut after this.

I walk to the entrance of the building, taking little notice of the exceptionally grim-looking faces of the Uniformed Cops as well as Homicide Officers alike. Even Batista, who is often quite impassive when it comes to the depths of human depravity is sweating a little, holding his trademark fedora over his heart as he utters a prayer in Spanish.

"Angel! _Cómo estás_?" I ask, unable to hide my disappointment in myself.

"_Oyé_," he begins after he finishes praying, claps my back, and leads me up the stairs, "You and I have seen some fucked-up things while working together, right, Dexter?" I nod my affirmative, "This is a cut above all that shit."

I hope that pun was unintended, Angel:

"How so?" I ask, surveying what information the police already have on the killer as Batista leads me towards the stairwell.

"This guy makes the Ice Truck Killer look like a pansy. This guy was fucking _butchered_. I mean, Miami's got its fuck-ups, but _conjo_; be reasonable! Who the fuck wants to work at two in the morning on a Friday? Whoever did it dragged me away from my wife to see this shit."

Sorry about that. Sudden-onset brain lesions that rendered my ability to judge whether or not Miami Metro will be on the job past Thursday nights useless are to blame, I'm sure of it.

Batista leads me up the staircase to the second floor, where we happen upon a crowd of Forensic Techs whispering to each other in hushed voices, no doubt about my handiwork. I grit my teeth and pass through them into an even bigger crowd of Unis and Homicide Officers staring at the sight in the middle of it all. Finally, I get through and see Debs, Harry, LaGuerta, and Masuka all working with rather solemn looks on their faces.

I try to appear as impassive as possible, but right now, the only appropriate action I can think of in response to my stupidity is to take out my Beretta and shoot myself in the temple. Raising my eyebrow and curling my upper-lip in what I hope comes off as a 'disgusted' expression, but I'm not totally sure, as I feel arousal more than anything else, I try to look upon the body. All that blood...

I stop in front of my canvas of art, rubbing my forehead, looking at the slit throat, the missing eye, ear, fingers, the cuts all over his chest and arms and legs. Sometimes I scare myself. But it's not fear that my merry compatriots feel, it is absolute, complete, stomach-churning, revulsion; so much revulsion it could induce the vomit-equivalent of an enema. I let out a slight gust of air and let my eyes rove all around the body.

It _was_ fun while it lasted; wasn't it?

"Takes 'butcher' to whole new level, am I right?" I joke weakly; Batista gives me a look and mouths 'What the fuck?', while Debs shoots me a glare and I flash an apologetic look back. Harry just shakes his head and continues to stare at the body, at a loss. Masuka steps over to me and hands me a camera:

"You wanna just keep this camera?" He asks, "You end up taking all the pictures anyways."

I nod dumbly and take the camera from him, unscrew the cap and wait at the ready for the elder Morgan to give me my orders. Debra rocks back and forth on her heels, her chin resting on her hands in a thinker's pose, and, naturally, he jitters makes me nervous as well. For some reason, I can just picture that they're all coming to the realization that dashing, docile Dexter did this. But, of course, I quash these feelings because I know I didn't leave any traces of evidence behind.

"What's up with the pictures?" Batista asks.

LaGuerta sniffs in disdain, "Looks like pictures of people having sex."

"Well," Batista scoffs, apparently affronted by the fact that LaGuerta doesn't think that he could distinguish the act of coitus, "I mean, why are they here?"

"Could be an obsession," I reply, being helpfully unhelpful by steering them away from thinking about a person like me, "Sort of a peeping-Tom deal. Maybe got jealous of the guy who had his girl and chopped him up."

Harry doesn't give me an order, so I start to take blanket pictures of the entire body, taking solace in the task of zooming and focusing the lens to take the perfect picture-to accentuate the slight wounds (fillet knife), the missing appendages (tin snips), the missing ear and eye (scalping knife and a scalpel respectively)-as I try to ignore all that is going on around me.

Why did I do this?

I have never felt an urge to deviate from my Code before, never did not kill a person who wasn't fully, one-hundred percent deserving. And yet, Jaworski, who I now know is-was-a rapist and a murderer... I cut into him like a savage. These cuts, these missing fingers and ears and eyes thrown into a bucket as if they were refuse (I stop to take a picture of the bucket); they are not me. Wholly and simply. I've never felt the need to cause pain. Maybe spread fear, but beyond the cut to the cheek and the knife to the heart, I've never needed to do more than that. So why now, why did I suddenly feel the urge to kill; why did I suddenly want to be like my shadow brother, the Tamiami Slasher? What purpose did it serve, and why was the Passenger so forceful about this one?

Of course, the damn thing doesn't answer. All I can feel are its tired and happy footsteps-scaly and grating-receding towards its throne, where it lets out a contented belch and goes to sleep.

Fantastic. Now I _definitely_ don't know why I did it.

I rub my eyes, thoroughly hating myself right now, before putting the camera back up to my face, taking a picture of the socket that once held Jamie Jaworski's eye; the optic nerve rests at the back end of the eye socket.

The silence is killing me. And making me paranoid.

It's almost as quiet as when I normally cut up the bodies, which is what I'd probably be doing right now if I hadn't been caught by my shadow brother. I sigh again in a rather melancholy manner. Somehow sighing seems to fit quite perfectly with the somber mood of the group around me and it only seems to be intensified as the first tell-tale signs of a Miami storm is coming in.

There is a dripping noise coming from somewhere in the pipes on this floor; I didn't notice it the first time I was here, probably because I was too enamored with the possibility of having Jaworski on my table, but now the sound burns, and with each drip, I can feel my sanity shattering around me.

"Jesus," Debs _finally_ breaks the silence, "Well, we know this isn't the fucking Tamiami Slasher; does that mean we've got another one of these sick fucks?"

You know words can hurt 'sick fucks', too, Debra.

I remain silent. My method is too far removed from my friend's; it would be idiotic to try to convince them otherwise. So, I content to take more pictures with my jaw firmly set as Masuka slides next to me:

"Why so sour, Moser? Interrupted while playing eat the sausage with that Vice girl?" He asks, grinning, which is immediately wiped off his face when I shoot him a murderous glare; Debra and Harry do the same, "Oh. Uh. I guess you really were... I'll just go do my work now."

I nods, "Good," I reply sourly as the Asian man awkwardly ambles off.

The Detectives start putting out ideas that are so off-base that I start to feel slightly better about my chances of surviving this ordeal, but it doesn't change that I must be careful.

I sniff the air, detecting something I had not noticed before.

Jaworski smells. And not like decay, though that may start settling in early, considering that it's a humid Miami night and it's about to start raining. He just smells like _death_. I perhaps didn't notice it the first time around because the Passenger acted as a noseplug for all that grossness, but now that Dexter has been reduced back to his state as a mere man, he smells and he does not like.

"God, he reeks," I put a hand up to my nose and grimace.

"Nice of you to notice," Debs says sarcastically, and a little too scathingly. I wonder for an instant if I've angered her again somehow, but she continues in a much softer manner, "So, what do you think?"

"It's like you guys are saying," I try to remain as vague as possible, "He was strangled, he was tortured, and the most probable cause of death is the wound to the jugular vein. But, it could've been anything really. Revenge, money, drugs? We can't know for sure until we I.D. this poor bastard."

Debs scoffs, "Well, that wasn't vague at all..."

"Well, what do you expect? The man has half his face cleaved off; I can't work miracles." I say, slightly exasperated, which surprises both Harry and Debra.

"Jesus, Dex; I was just joking."

"Don't," I respond simply, and Debra gives me a questioning look before I turn away from her to Harry, "I got all the pictures I need. I'll just look around for any forensic evidence, alright?" The Lieutenant nods and lets me loose around the second floor. I do a very quick sweep of the second floor, trying to see if I have left anything, but, thankfully, I find nothing. So far, it looks as though I am safe.

But nothing is set in stone. I have to find some way to turn this crime away from prying eyes. I have to establish a motive, a person of interest, or I have to railroad the investigation until it is impossible to get anywhere without stepping on one's own toes.

"Debra," Harry says; Debra looks at him, "This one's yours, Officer Morgan. Under Doakes's supervision, of course."

Debra positively beams as Harry is called away from the crime scene by LaGuerta to talk to someone, perhaps a higher-up who has realized the Homicide Department has been overloaded with cases as of late.

"Dex," Debs catches my attention; her eyes are sparkling, a sure sign of her total commitment to this, "We're gonna catch this fucker. I know we will. You and me. We're gonna bring him in."

Shit.

* * *

><p>They I.D. the body as Jamie Jaworski at precisely 9:32 in the morning. Masuka pours over the body like the rain pours over the Miami skyline, as if the corpse of a raping coward will give him some answer, but I was clean this time. I used Garrote instead of M99, so the best that they can tell is that Jaworski was strangled from the ligature marks, but that's about it. They might be able to tell what knives I've used, but nothing too serious. So long as Debra doesn't find something even I've left unaccounted for, I should be safe.<p>

I should be safe.

I play along with them and offer them helpfully unhelpful hints, trying to delay the inevitable process of identifying the M.O. behind the killer. It looks like I will have to do more research on my friend Jamie Jaworski to find a suitable cause as to why he might've been killed.

But, unfortunately, my tenacious best friend is already getting closer and closer, making my fifteen-step lead only five, once she discovers Jaworski was suspected of raping and murdering a girl but got of on a faulty search warrant. It doesn't take long for us to get authorization into searching Jaworski's dilapidated Coconut Grove home, where, we, of course, are forced to encounter that wild, stupid dog again. He spends all his free-time barking at me, which wouldn't normally faze me, considering all animals behave that way around me, but given the circumstances... if they find out that this was a vigilante kill rather than a person who got overzealous with his kitchen knives, this could look a little more than suspicious. Batista just smiles and shakes his head as the dog continues to bark at me at its absolute peak in ferocity, saying something along the lines of 'Man's best friend, am I right, _socio_?', to which I grin a very faked grin and nod with gusto.

Debra's reaction, on the other hand, does not carry quite as much wit to it:

"Holy fuck, that dog does _not _like you!"

"I've noticed," I reply.

But it's strange that Debs doesn't notice that _all_ animals hate me, considering there was a four month stretch where I couldn't go to the Morgan household when we were teenagers because Deb had taken in a stray pug that would whimper and pee everywhere if I ever came over. Needless to say, given my attachment to Harry and his daughter, the dog didn't stay long.

_I_ didn't kill him. I swear.

And, just as Jaworski's home was a gold mine to me, the chains, dirt, grime-all part of the BDSM decor that his interior designer no doubt recommended-has all the 'real' cops honed-in on them as well. Doakes tells us to bag anything that could be considered pertinent to the case, at which Debs replies that anything in the house could be pertinent to the case, judging by the hovel Jaworski stuck himself in.

"Explains the stench on the guy," Masuka replies blithely, looking around at what appears to be a pair of nipple clamps, "That's lovely," he says with a grimace, noting that there is apparently something icky and slimy on it.

"Bag it," Doakes says unsympathetically, which, apparently, is hilarious because everyone else begins laughing, so I join in as well.

"Dex, come over here," Debs waves me over to the table, the very table were I had found Jaworski's little hobby. She's following my phantom self's steps from two days ago, almost to a T. Is Debra really this good? Or am I getting soft? "Interesting choice of reading."

She points to a BDSM mag with a Queen of Hearts bookmarking one of the pages. Debs opens it to the bookmarked page which is filled with ads of pictures of women in latex outfits, their breasts, with über-realistically drawn nipples, exposed in what I assume is supposed to be an arousing manner. Vince ambles over to us and nods at the drawing:

"Nice tits," he says, before snapping a picture, "for later."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," I deadpan; Debs nods in disgust and Vince grins at both of our repulsed reactions.

"I'm starting to think this wasn't just crazed obsession about a guy who got the one that got away."

"You might be right," I reply, snapping a photo of the computer.

"Hey, he circled this ad," Deb points out a large advert for everyone's favorite rape/BDSM/snuff-film site:

"'Scream Bitch, Scream'," I drawl, trying very hard to conceal my disappointment in Debra's competent police work, "I'm sure that's a totally normal site." I don't know how else to convey that sentence except in a manner of complete and total sarcasm.

"Yeah, and Masuka is the Second-fucking-Coming," Debra retorts, before writing down 'Scream Bitch, Scream-Jaworski' on a notepad she brought with her to the crime scene.

Well, the one thing I can take solace in is that once they see what Jaworski was actually capable of, they'll stop feeling so sorry for him.

When I get back to the station, a little bit after everyone else because I say that I am staying for some extra-sweeping of the house-mainly to make sure I didn't leave any trace evidence, but I do feel much better once I get back to the office, an I find Debra and Doakes analyzing the 911 call that got the police down to Coconut Grove in time to find my handiwork. It's funny, because the voice they are analyzing clearly belongs to a heavily-stereotyped, Southern black man, also known as the 'Bubba'. However, my shadow friend was not African-American, from what features I could pick out from last night- long, almost curly hair, kind of like mine before chemotherapy, of course-indicative of what's more likely to be a white male rather than an African-American.

"I see one o'dem dere bodies. Sho' was groosum!" The soft, earthy tones of the what most of white America thinks black people sound like hits my ears as I walk inside the HQ. I blaze right past the growing group listening to this fake bayou-born African-American voice tell the operator about how he was in Eye-rack serving time in Bag-dad, and how he ain't seen nothin' so frightenin' in all his life.

"Hey, hey, hey! Dex!" Debra calls after me, "Where are you going?"

"To work on my case," I deadpan.

"Wait, you aren't gonna work on this case?"

"Nope. Don't care." It's a bad lie, I know, but I really don't need to work on it with you, Debs, as much as I enjoy your company.

"Why not?"

"It ain't my turn to care," I reply in that same Bubba voice that is being vomited out Doakes's computer and try to leave a stunned Debs behind, but, of course, I yet again underestimate her tenacity:

"And why the _fuck_ isn't it your turn to care?" She catches up to me and says this as she grabs me by the left shoulder and flings me around.

"Never was. Not my case." Please, Deb, just let it be; I've got other things to take care of at the moment.

"But it's mine," she says, almost in a hurt manner, "Doesn't that matter?"

I am about to reply when I am cut off by a gruff "Moser!". This turns out to be Harry calling to me from his office, "My office, now."

"We'll talk about this later, Debs," I put my hand on the brunette's shoulder; she makes a point of grasping my outstretched hand and nodding, putting on a sweet smile that makes her look much prettier than than the perpetual frown she usually wears as I head towards the elder man's office.

"Dexter," he says, once we're inside and the door is shut, "The Captain heard about your panic attack at the Ice Truck Crime Scene. He wants you to see a Police Psychologist." Great. A shrink to add to the list of my worries. But I realize it is best for me to comply, so I answer with a few obligatory 'yes'es and find that I am scheduled for a three o'clock meeting with a psychiatrist named Emmett Meridian.

So, by the time three o'clock rolls around, I find myself rolling up to Meridian's small Art-Deco building on a corner street off Brickell, and for a moment, I just stare at the building for no real reason. I wonder why I'm even going. I don't need a therapist, what I need is assurance that I am not found out. But, I eventually go in.

Meridian is a tall man, well-built and in his mid-to-late-forties. His hair is graying, and he sits with the grace and posture one would expect one of these scientists of the mind to.

"So, Dexter, is it?"

"Yeah," I reply.

"Hmm... uncommon name, there."

"I get that quite a lot."

"I'd assume you do," we both chuckle until Meridian gives me a straight, deadpan look, as if he's searching my face for something, "So, what did you come here for?"

"I don't know, it's a requirement to keep working," I reply.

"No, no, not why were you sent here. Why, for what, did _you_ specifically come here?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that."

"Sorry, but the only person who can identify your problems is you," he replies nonchalantly, "so, you have to tell me what you think the problem is."

"Well, I get caught in traffic a lot," Meridian levels a slightly annoyed, slightly amused glare at me. I know I'm supposed to tell him something exceedingly important about my childhood that will lead me to some revelation about my character, but even I don't know that. And I don't feel, so how could I ever come to a revelation? "Well, maybe if you tell me something about yourself, then I'll have something to go off of."

Meridian gives me a long look before he speaks: "Now, you see, I can tell you're not used to being in a submissive position," Guilty as charged, "But yet you pretend to be. I've been told you're a detective with absolutely no aspirations of going further than that; you dress to be completely unassuming. One would easily think, at first glance, that they could walk all over you."

"But?"

"You just turned my question on me as a way of flipping control. If you know something about me, you can construct a lie exaggerate your story to fit more in line with mine."

Astute. I don't like this guy.

"So I ask you again," Meridian crosses his legs and brings his hands together, "why did you come here?"

Silence.

"Okay," Meridian says, leaning forward, "Let's start with you. What happened that had you sent here?"

Okay, that one's easy, "I... had a panic attack at a crime scene. A really big one."

"Why do you think you did?"

I sigh, "It's all a blur, really. I guess I just wasn't used to seeing kids like that."

"Like what?"

"You didn't hear?" I question lightly, "Two boys, eyes and tongues cut out." Meridian grimaces at that as I continue, "Something strange happened. I couldn't breathe and couldn't think. I don't even know if I remembered who I was."

"So, how'd you break out of it?"

"A friend of mine. She calmed me down."

"Who is she?"

"My best friend, Debra," Or, at least, as close as Debs can be to being a monster's best friend, "I've known her since grade school. She and I both got on the Force at the same time, but she was sort of forced into Vice while I got into Homicide."

He nods, and leans forward, folding his hands as he speaks, "Why do you think she was the one that was able to calm you down?"

I shrug, "I haven't really much thought about it."

"Ah." That's it? Ah? I expected more from you, Dr. Meridian, "Let's talk friends. You have any? Aside from Debra, of course."

"Yeah, a few," I reply.

"Girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"Sex life?"

"What sex life?" I joke, "Yeah. I've got one."

"You sound disappointed by that," Meridian says, folding his hands and putting them underneath his chin to make the perfect face of consternation, "Are you?"

"It's personal."

"This is therapy. Everything is personal. We share personal things."

I sigh in a playfully histrionic manner, causing the elder man to smile slightly, "I have a girlfriend. Her name is Eliza. I think we've had sex at least twenty times now, and while she seems to, I don't enjoy it very much."

"You don't?"

"I've never really understood the hype behind it. It doesn't feel that great."

"It doesn't feel that great," the psychiatrist begins with a knowing grin, "or you just don't want to give up that control to another person?"

I smile. Guilty as charged again. And I still don't like this guy.

* * *

><p>Control. Meridian talked about it a lot, and I know he's right. I find it a little sad that I'm so easy to read, but thankfully, I hide what I can't have anyone else read quite easily; it's a learned skill, and one that'll help me go far. I appear to be open and honest, but I'm really a lying little scamp. Wonderful. But when I got into my car, I couldn't help but feel slightly like I was being followed. I checked around and saw no cars that appeared to be honed in on me, but the Passenger bids me be watchful. And when the Passenger is in a state of alert, so am I. The only cars that seemed to go the same way as I did was a black BMW M3 and a white Toyota Avalon. But both pass by without a care as I exited off the Palmetto Expressway.<p>

It's probably paranoia.

And Masuka is jumping around me like a happy puppy, and somehow, I don't think this bodes well for me. Naturally, that doesn't help my paranoia level. I look through the file he's slammed down on my desk. I was even cleaner than I expected; there are no drugs, no hairs, no fibers from anything I wore... so then why does it look like Masuka's just been asked to marry the Prince of England?

"What are you so happy about, there's nothing here." I deadpan.

"No, nothing here," Masuka grins, "But you know that friend of yours in Narcotics?"

"Quinn?"

"Morgan somehow got in contact with him and found out that place was a drug rat hideout," my heart sinks at that.

"That means-" I trail off, feeling the noose tightening around me.

"-tapped with fiber optics, Grasshopper!" I resist the urge to stab the Forensic Scientist in the gut with the box cutter in my pocket. "You give me a ride there and you can see what sickfuck did this, too."

Debra, you are _not_ making this easy for me!

Now, I don't claim to believe in a higher power, but it's entirely possible that some intelligent being upstairs either really hates me or is completely and entirely bored with the rest of humanity. I couldn't even begin to understand why he'd be so bored as to mess with me, the most unimportant man in the world, as he's got AIDS, world hunger, and two wars to take care of, but I suppose I am an evil on less of a grand scale, and he wants to go easy to hard in his quest to end all strife in the world. And naturally, I don't _claim_ to believe in a benevolent God, but I am beginning to believe in a malevolent one, as I am quite sure that the only god that could force me to endure a forty-five minute drive through lunchtime Miami traffic with Vince Masuka is of the devil's brood himself.

But, thankfully, the never-ending slew of perverted jokes and comments about Debs's rear come to an end without me committing ritual suicide. But, that only lets the fear that I may be committing ritual suicide by going into the place that holds my secret. I _should_ be packing my boat, I _should_ be getting rid of all my slides and tools and bolting away from Miami, maybe to another coastal town and catch a boat out of the country, but I _have_ to know. I have to know for sure. Besides, there's no sense in running. It would only delay the inevitable.

I walk straight into a gaggle of grim-faced Unis. You would think these people would be happier to have 78-degree weather and all this sunshine, but stoic and slightly angry they remain.

This is the price of idiocy; the price of being reckless and resting on the laurels of the Dark Passenger. I didn't stake out this building, I didn't know that it was fitted with fiber-optic cameras, and had I done my research, had I _followed the Code_, this situation would never have come up. But, I sought after vainglorious pursuits and decided to kill on a whim, something so far outside Justice, something so far outside my Code.

Something... spontaneous? Something I didn't have control over. Something... human?

Ha, funny way to realize that.

But, I have trapped myself in a corner, and there is no choice but to walk into the maw. After all, if anyone deserves to arrest me, it is Debs; not Batista, or LaGuerta, and _certainly not _Doakes!

Once we reach the third floor, I walk to my perceived 'best friend', who is doing her absolute best to get stuck onto the 'no doughnuts' list. She looks up, surprised:

"What, I thought 'it ain't your turn to care'?" She asks, sliding close.

I shrug, "You'd be surprised when it suddenly becomes my turn. You're about to catch your first criminal ever," I say, pointing to the computers that are being set up by Forensics to view the what's been recorded on the cameras, "How could I resist?"

"You came to see that? You know, this might lead to nothing, right?" She asks, still surprised.

Well, not exactly. I came because you're going to arrest _me_ in a few minutes. But, that will come when it comes. And if I have made so many mistakes two nights ago, I may as well have made the mistake of being caught by the camera as well. So it will probably lead to something, just not the 'something' you're expecting.

"Of course I did, when it comes to you or Harry, or my family, it's always my turn." I poke the bridge of her nose playfully and suddenly have the overwhelming urge to be close to her as this may be the last time she ever sees me as Dexter rather than 'That Monster'. And so I move closer and wrap an arm around her shoulder and tell Debra that I'm proud of her and how she's been working on the case, at which she absolutely beams.

"You know, Dex," she says at length, "I think I can almost sympathize with the guy who did this."

"You can?"

"It's fucking weird, I know, but after you left for the Shrink yesterday, I found something on that BDSM website that Jaworski had marked down." I nod, "And it was a rape film site. Mixed in with a few snuff films as well. And Jaworski was in one of them."

"How do you know?"

"That fucking hideous tattoo of his."

"Ah," I nod.

"And someone else knew as well."

"Knew?" I ask, "knew how?"

"Remember those pictures Batista and LaGuerta were talking about?"

"Yeah?"

Deb sniffs lightly, "He raped and killed two women that I know of. Those pictures weren't put there because the guy was obsessed, or because he wanted the girl. This could only be one of two things: a loved one who wanted revenge, or a vigilante. One that has some sort of twisted set of principles."

I swallow, and it feels like I gulped an extremely large, frozen meatball.

"What do you think it is?"

"We said all the girls were tourists, so it might've been a family member in Miami, but the two girls we tried to charge him for didn't have family anywhere nearby Southern Florida. One family was from Minneapolis, the other from Oklahoma City. And as far as I can tell, they haven't made any trips down here since the they I.D'd the bodies."

"So you think it was a-"

"-Vigilante. Yeah. He's fucking brutal, yeah, that's for sure, and he's a killer, so we have to hunt him regardless... but, we couldn't get to him, and the fucked-up motivations aside, the guy did the right thing."

"Which was?"

"I don't know, create some justice? I know that it was a fucking _shitbag_ of a way to do it, and I'd never agree with butchering people like this-we're cops, we don't get to choose who lives and dies-but, I watched that video, and something in me feels better that this fuck is down."

"Well, no matter what you do," I reply, "If you're messing with the law, one day, you're going to get your just desserts."

"Yeah. By us or by them, everyone gets got. The question is, who does a better job at it? Us, or him?"

I smile and pull her closer. Maybe she won't totally hate me once she finds out, but that might be wishing too much.

"Morgan!" Doakes calls, "We're ready!"

Well, judgment day. I've always been ready for this moment to come, but I usually thought that I'd feel something more than this. I don't feel much of anything, actually. Just a sort of contentedness. I know that somewhere behind all that is the Dark Passenger, screaming wildly for me to go running, but I just haven't got the willpower to do so when Debra is so close to finding out everything.

And she agrees!

How bizarre is that?

We move over to an area where a set of computers are running through the fiber-optic camera's memory. Masuka grimaces, punching a few things into a keyboard, before Debra asks what's wrong.

"Looks like the first and second floor cameras were damaged," He replies; is my luck suddenly looking up? "Either the drug rats or the rain got to them-this place is pretty badly exposed to the elements-, I don't know, we'll have to take a look at them, but that also means that our guy isn't likely to be on camera. I'll run the third and fourth floor just in case."

And the malevolent god is suddenly becoming benevolent. The fiber-optics don't work on the second floor! And I never stepped foot into the third, I just hid in the stairwell. Maybe I won't have to go to jail, maybe Debra won't have to learn who I am. Maybe neither she nor Harry will have to drag me in to the Department, tag me, and throw me away into a cell to be forgotten.

Maybe.

And the third floor tapes yield nothing but Jaworski ambling towards the stairs and never coming back up. Of course, they hear Jaworski's screams, but our conversation, or at least, the part the Passenger and I took in it, was quiet, unrushed, controlled. And thus, thankfully, the dulcet tones of the Passenger and I did not reach the camera on the third floor.

And, just like that, I am not walking the plank, standing at the gallows, stomping into the maw, charging into the valley of death; I am standing there, completely innocent, with nothing to tie me to the case anymore. I am at a loss, all the lies surrounding me, the ones I had come so dangerously close to letting go of come back, raising up the wall of half-truths and mostly-lies, so that for anyone else who can see, I'm alive inside. Debra looks at me and sighs, shrugging her shoulders:

"Well, it was worth a shot," she says, defeated.

I try to reassure her, "Hey, it doesn't matter, Debs. Whether it's by us or them, everyone gets got, right?"

The brunette smiles, "Come on, asshole. I'm hungry."

We take a quick lunch at a small Cuban restaurant, both of us get a _medianoche_ sandwich, which I happen to love, and I take her back to the station, one hand on the wheel, the other on the crispy sandwich as we shoot down Biscayne Boulevard.

"So, it's going to be impossible to catch this guy, isn't it?" Debra asks, rubbing her forehead.

"I don't know," I say, "He could be on the next block; he could be halfway around the world by now."

"LaGuerta and her boys will be laughing it up now, I'm sure," the brunette practically spits, "Can't even solve this case."

"Debs," I reply, "You did everything you could, you couldn't do any better if you'd gotten Sherlock Holmes in on the case. You did good. It's just that our killer was careful. He didn't make any mistakes."

Knock on wood.

"You really think so?"

"Of course," I reassure the brunette, who just laughs in that half-scoff, half-giggle way of hers when she's nervous and slumps lower in her seat to catch some sleep.

* * *

><p>"You're looking considerably less bleak today, Dexter," Meridian says whilst wearing a big, fat, fake smile. I don't know why, but there's something about him that rubs the Passenger the wrong way. Probably because he's trying to invade that holiest of holies, the absolute most sacrosanct part of myself that no one else belongs in: my inner world, the Castle of the Great Dark Dexter-my mind.<p>

"I'm feeling considerably less bleak today," I reply nonchalantly. That's not entirely true, considering I had enough radioactive drugs jammed up my veins to kill a small horse. It leaves me feeling ill in the stomach and looking slightly pale in the face, but one can't sweat the small stuff, can he?

"But still not happy." I would normally assume he is phrasing this as a question, but his tone of voice does not seem to match the question. "You just feel less poorly. Let's talk about that. What makes you happy, Dex?"

I stop to think for a moment, and remember snipping off Jaworski's fingers, "Working with my hands," I reply.

"Detective work was a good field to go into, then. Lot of hands-on work there, right?"

I nod blankly and fake a smile, the 'joking Dex' facial expression, "Right."

"Do you do a lot of hands-on work outside of being a detective?"

"Oh, all the time."

"What do you do to, you know, relax, take stress off?"

I pause again, thinking about watching the fluids of my latest tablemate's inner-eye leak out onto his chest and into some of his wounds: "I hunt a lot. Pheasants."

"What about people? Who makes you happy?"

"I spend a lot of time with my brother, Brian. And Debra."

"Not your girlfriend?"

"I guess not."

"Your brother and a childhood friend."

"Yes."

"So," he begins, gesturing wildly, "you'd say that they're the people who are closest to you?"

I shrug, "I guess so."

"And how well do you think they know you?"

Well. That's a tough question. Obviously both don't know me very well at all. Both probably wouldn't enjoy me as much as they do if they knew who I really was. Debra may have said that she understands the killer's motives, but she certainly wouldn't take it well if she found out I were the killer after all. And Brian might have an even poorer reaction. Cancer as an excuse might work for him, but not for long, and Debs would never allow that to stand because that's who she is; just, big-hearted, kind... nothing like me.

"Not that well, I guess."

"Because?"

"I don't like to talk about myself."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to be a burden," I smile inwardly at my quick lie.

"Don't want to be a burden, or don't want to open up to someone else because you lose the control then?"

Why, man, he doth bestride the world like a colossus! He's good, far better than the psychological hacks I've seen through my college studies as well as my time outside the country. _And_ he raises a good point. I keep control to keep my world from collapsing. I saw what happened when I lost control of myself and how sheer luck had saved me. Unfortunately, I might be more open to letting go of the control had I not been given this keen insight that my days are numbered. Whether it's me or them, everyone gets got, as Debs said.

"I have a problem," I shrug, smiling. "I can't open up."

"Why not? Is there a reason that you can't have a close, intimate relationship with your brother or your friend? Because it's harmed your family life, your friendships, and your relationship with your girlfriend."

"No." I say, "None that I can remember." Well, that's not entirely true, but the good doctor doesn't need to know that.

"Okay," he says, rubbing his hands together, "we're going to try a deep relaxation technique. Maybe if you can just let go of that control for a few minutes here, with time it'll become easier to do so with everyone in your life."

Now, I usually think these meditation techniques are the byproduct of psychological psuedoscience, rather than the study of observable behavior, but my parents raised me to be a rational, open-minded young man, so I'm willing to try it once. In any case, I don't particularly think I have much of a choice; whether or not I want to give up the control, which I don't, I have to do this so Dim Dexter can maintain the appearance of being normal.

Meridian gets up and shuts off the lights, before telling me to close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and out.

"Think of a time when you didn't have control. Think of a time when you were absolutely helpless."

I close my eyes, thinking about how stupid all of this is and that I could be having a sandwich right now. And then I am climbing up on a ladder. I've been climbing up this ladder all my life, and I wonder if I've just been wasting my time. And as I climb another rung, scenes flash through my mind; Harry telling me to never lose control, a Slavic Man in the Siberian wilds telling me to hide, to manage every facet of myself so that no one will ever suspect.

"_Dexter, I'm your friend_," Debra says, standing over me in her hooker outfit, which she seems to suddenly fill out quite attractively, "_Why couldn't you tell me what you are_?"

I couldn't tell you. I can't tell anyone. I try to move around but find myself chained to the table I rest upon.

"_Are you even human_?" She asks, leaning down towards me, lips brushing against mine.

"_No,_" comes the pubescent voice of Jeremy Downs, "_You're like me. You're just-_" a shadow of a man, of two men, form around him, _"-fucked up_."

Daddy?

"_Don't look this way, son!_"

Daddy?

"_You are my son, and you are loved__."_

Daddy?

"_Don't ever lose control, son; you lose it, and you lose everything._"

Daddy, don't leave me! Voices... bombard me from all around, and I feel the sensation of discomfort, of wetness. And I look down at my small, misshapen hands, too small for a thirty year-old man; they are covered in red. Sticky, hot, gooey, red blood! Blood, blood, so much blood.

Bodysnatchers! Bodysnatchers! Killers, thieves, addicts! Everywhere! They're everywhere!

And the world constricts and those two boys that lost their tongues and eyes come rushing back to me, their yodels and cries of utter anguish return full-force. There's so much blood around me. I look up and see... something. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I need to get out, I feel myself slipping, losing control.

I _can't_ lose control. Not now. Not ever.

"I have... I've got to go," I splutter out quickly; feeling terribly, terribly ill as I rush to the door:

"Dexter!" Meridian calls out, but I ignore him and practically run out of the office and to my car, only the faint sounds of 'Dexter' and 'Daddy' still ringing in my ears.

What the fuck happened back there?

But I don't have enough time to even think as I someone rings me up the very second I turn on the car. It's Brian's number, so I can rest assured that the Homicide Department didn't find yet another scrap that could incriminate me in Jamie Jaworski's murder; I answer:

"Hey, Brian," I speak, calming myself down from whatever happened inside Meridian's office.

"Dexter?" An uncertain, soft female voice comes from the other line. I sit up a little straighter once I recognize it's Rita, rather than my brother:

"Rita? What's up?" I shift the gear lever into 'Drive' and stop at the stoplight that would turn me onto Brickell.

"Dexter, could you please come over? Brian and I need you here,"

"Wait; what's wrong?" I ask, feeling a little alarmed at the blonde's hushed and urgent tone of voice.

"It's my ex-husband, he got out of jail because of overcrowding. Can you please come over?"

I nod quickly, even though Rita can't see me, "Yeah, sure. I'll be there in thirty minutes. You want me to get Debs?"

"Can she come?" Rita asks hopefully.

"I'm not entirely sure, but I think she'll be more than willing to come down with me if Paul's involved."

"Thank you, Dex," she says gratefully, "bye."

"See you soon," I say before dialing Debs's number. It rings once and then Deb answers:

"Dex? What's up?" She says, almost breathlessly.

"You sound tired," I quip amiably.

"I was just running," she replies, sounding defensive.

It seems like a good excuse, but I don't particularly care, "Are you up for a ride down to Coconut Grove?"

"Why?"

"Rita's ex is out of the can," I respond, taking a left onto Brickell and towards Debra's apartment in Bal Harbour, "Overcrowding. I assume he's harassing her and my brother, so I figure maybe the cop who did a number on him the first time can get him to leave."

"How soon can you be here?" Debs asks, her previously breathless tone replaced by that of a hardened Police Officer's.

"Ten minutes if I speed."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to get hurt..." the brunette scoffs.

"Noted," I say, before punching the gas and cutting our call short.

It is only then I allow myself to linger upon the thought of what happened in Meridian's office. It's hard to describe, but yet again, I believe it was another panic attack. Leave aside the way I feel from the constant stream of chemotherapy over the past few days and how this investigation has done nothing to soothe my nerves, the constant panic attacks are not helping. My throat feels raw, I feel like I have to throw up, and my head feels like a balloon filled with far too much air. Talking to Rita and Debs did something the stave off the maladies, but they've returned full force now that all I've got to enjoy is the silence. My stomach gives a little turn, no doubt from the chemotherapy session last night having finally taken its effect. I grunt and grimace, but of course, that would do nothing to settle my ailing abdomen.

A few more minutes of high-speeds, idiotic drivers, and a great churning stomach, and I find myself outside of Debs's building feeling admirably unsettled. I step out of my car long enough to feel bile rise up to my mouth, and immediately bend over to a grassy patch to relieve myself of the non-existent lunch I had this afternoon. It's yellow, with a bit of blood red of blood mixed in, and the general humor of it is very _pukesque_.

Yes, that's a word I invented just now.

I remain bent over and staring in mild horror at the contents of my stomach when I hear Debs's voice off to the side:

"Dexter! Are you alright?" She calls from a little ways away.

She must not have seen everything, but one can't assume too much, can they?

"I'm fine," I say, pushing her away as she tries to grasp me by the shoulders, "It's the drugs. It happens some times." Debra ignores my pushes and grabs me by the wrists to help me up, looking upon the vomit with a mixture of revulsion and pity. I hate pity.

"Jesus," she starts softly, transfixed by the expulsion of unwanted bodily fluids and food, before she turns back to me, "Why is this happening to you?"

"Karma," I respond in a playfully despondent manner.

Deb looks into my eyes, and I can see a soulfulness in hers that swells upwards, waiting to be unleashed upon the world. But what does she see in mine? There can't be anything in these mocking greens of mine. Nothing at all. Just noise, likely.

She smells nice.

"Come on," she says at length, "we need to get to The Grove."

I nod and move to the car; Debra asks me if I think I am okay to drive, to which I respond in the affirmative. We hurry to the other side of the city to where Rita's home is, managing to make it there in twenty minutes by breaking every conceivable traffic law I can. Debs adjusts her gun and badge as we both move quickly, our strides purposeful and in unison, to the front door.

I knock, and in a moment, Brian opens the door, looking rather peeved; thankfully, his face re-contorts from an expression of utter loathing to at least some form of happiness as he sees me standing there:

"Dexter, Debra," he greets jovially, albeit 'jovial' in a strained manner, "I think you'll need to come in."

The first thing we hear upon coming inside is a masculine voice shouting: 'They're my kids, too!'. Since, of course, I do not recognize that voice, it must be that of Paul's. It is confirmed when I see Rita seated at one end of the table, her expression midway between terrified and wrathful, and a shaggy blond mop of hair at the other end. This tuft of hair is Paul Bennett, Rita's ex-husband and serial rapist and abuser of his ex-wife. Sounds absurd, yes, but once again, it happens. Said rapist turns around, revealing a rather normal-looking face. Placid eyes, a set jaw, Roman nose and thin lips.

But, normal-looking doesn't _always_ mean normal. Take it from Exhibit A.

"And you are?" He asks with what I must say is an inordinate amount of hate being directed at a person he's only met once in his entire life, and that one time is exactly three seconds ago.

I shrug, "No one," I reply, "Cable's out next door, I decided this was a pretty decent substitute-good, clean fun for the whole family."

"Oh, you think you're real funny, don't you?"

"People tell me so," I reply, "I don't like to think they lie about it. In any case, you might not remember me, as I couldn't give less of a crap about you, but you probably _do_ remember my partner over here." I point at Debs, who, to this point, has been standing idly by Brian, acting as the perfect statue-the right amount of menace and beauty. Paul actually recoils at the site of the brunette:

"You," he mutters angrily.

"Yeah," Debs says, her eyes flashing and her voice develops a distinct hard-edged tinge to it, "Me."

"So, you're police," Paul states at me through gritted teeth.

"I suppose I am," I reply.

His eyes flash a little on their own, "Are you going to arrest me? Because I haven't done anything wrong. I'm clean, I'm sober-"

"Does it look like I care?" I ask in a disinterested manner and let a little bit of the Passenger to seep into my voice to add an icy-controlled spin on my tone, "I'm not interested in domestic disturbances, or your little junkie trips, I'm _murder police_." I deconstruct 'homicide' into it's basic elements to keep from confusing the poor crack-addict. And let's face it, no matter how hard this abuser thinks he is, a junkie cannot compete with someone like me.

"Then why are you here?" The Passenger inwardly smirks at the slight discomfort that radiates off the blond man.

"Well, because the nice man you've been chatting to is my brother."

"Aw, this is a real fair fight Rita; I just want my kids!" Paul says, unambiguously angry by this point.

Rita shakes her head and, at Brian's looks of encouragement, says in a more insistent voice, "I told you, Paul; I will give you supervised weekend visits, nothing more, nothing less. If you can show you can handle them, then maybe, maybe, I'll consider giving you more time with them."

"Sounds like a good deal, Paul," Debs says, clearly mocking the man, "I'd take it if I were you."

"I am in agreement." I affirm.

Paul looks slightly angry, but calms himself down enough to answer, "Okay, Rita, weekend visits with supervision. I'll prove to you that I can raise these kids, too. You don't need the police to supervise everything."

"But it does help," I quip affably, at which Paul shoots me a murderous glare, "I've got a friend who is a lawyer, I can have him set something up with you guys in a few days. Does that sound alright."

"It sounds great, Dexter," Rita says, nodding.

"Dexter?" Paul questions, grinning slightly, but immediately sobers and nods in the same manner his ex-wife just did, "Okay. That sounds fine."

"Perfect," I reply, clapping my hands together and heading towards the den as Paul blazes out the door, spending one long moment at the door to send a smoldering glare at Debs before he finally leaves. I came here, may as well spend some time with my dear brother and his significant other once Paul has left, "Do you get HBO here?"

"Yeah," Brian says, "The kids are out, but just keep the volume low."

* * *

><p>Later on, Debra and I return to my apartment for a late dinner. She claims she just wants to see a movie, but I think she's concerned for my welfare after my projectile vomiting all over the lawn outside her building. It's unfortunate, because I need some way to grasp my world, because I need that control. This would've been the perfect night to do some research, or perhaps start to clean off the bodies of those little boys outside Mike Donovan's cabin in Opa Locka, but, Dexter with Cancer is a high-maintenance man, and must be regularly checked by Debra, or so she seems to think.<p>

But, it clearly seems she's not in the right state either; Debra appears to have had a few too many beers at Rita's, so I guess, at best, we're both looking after the other's welfare. She sits and stares at the TV Screen for a while as I prepare a late-night dinner for two.

Something about cooking, especially cooking meat, has always been therapeutic for me. The way it gets cut and the trimming and the searing and the eating; it's very, very calming, like ordering blood in free time. Or sticking a Bowie knife through someone's chest. I could say that it's because I am an already-dangerous sociopath with a disturbing fetish, but I am more inclined to believe that some part of me is also a cannibal, however.

Just kidding. Seriously.

Cooking does help bring some order back into my lately rather order-less world, which I take as a blessing. So I prepare some skirt steak I bought yesterday for both Debs and I.

"Do you need help?" The brunette questions, suddenly materializing before me.

"Not really, but you're welcome to watch."

So, that's exactly what she does, after turning on the radio, of course. I believe that it is a Curtis Mayfield song that is playing. You know, the really famous one? The one I always forget the name of... Oh, right, _Move on Up_ is the name of it.

"Jesus, Dex," Debs whines, opening up the fridge, "Why do you never keep any beer around?"

I point the knife I had been using to relieve the meat of its undesirable parts at her in a playful manner, "Don't you think you've had enough?"

The brunette moves from the fridge to the countertop and pouts slightly, "No," she says, crossing her arms.

"Well, I hate the taste, so I don't keep any around," I reply, "I keep Gin for special occasions, but I think you're too smashed already."

She's already raiding my cupboards. For a moment, a spring of concern wells up within me; Debra rarely binge drinks, but she's looking to get thoroughly drunk tonight, it seems. The only time she drinks a lot is when something bad happens at work, as I've noticed she has no social life with the notable exception of me. I can understand _why_ she'd drink, being best friends with a serial killer, whether you know it or not, is a pretty depressing life.

I flip the steaks and feel something scaly uncoil in the nether reaches of Castle Dexter as I watch her shuffle from cupboard-to-cupboard looking for a glass to drink from. It chuckles at the girl and gives me a little wink-and-nudge.

What is he doing? Does the Passenger want me to kill her?

Well, obviously, _that_ won't happen. For one thing, it would be terribly messy to kill a drunk woman. Not to mention a spontaneous kill is what's gotten me into this mess and it would be a terrible waste of a perfectly good Debra to stab her in the back right now.

But the Passenger seems to shake his head and give me another wink-nudge.

"You're drinking more than usual. What happened?" I ask, setting the now-cooked meat aside on a plate to rest for a few minutes and wipe my fingers with a towel. Debra walks over to my living room and plops herself on the couch, taking a swig of the gin she prepared for herself:

"I was reassigned."

"From the Jaworski Case?" I ask, sitting next to her.

"Yeah," she says, "Back to the Tamiami Slasher because LaGuerta thinks she can do it better."

"Well, she's the Sergeant. You're a rookie when it comes to Homicide; don't worry, it's a dead case anyways. They'll never find out who did it; this guy was too clean. Too neat."

"But, that's the thing," Debs says angrily, "She's got a suspect."

She does?

"She does?" I echo my thoughts.

"Turns out the second floor fiber-optic camera _was_ working, someone had just covered it over with a piece of paper. A fucking_ piece of paper_. A piece of paper with a red smiley face on it."

"Okay, so?"

"Right, you're not on the Tamiami Slasher case," Debs says, "He left us a note that said the same thing at the American Airlines Arena, we found it after you left. Same color, same paper, same marker... same person. And he's fucking mocking us! A piece of fucking paper and the sound was such terrible quality that we couldn't even make out anything but Jaworski's screaming!"

I put a hand on her shoulder, trying to console the Officer, "But the method of cutting, the exsanguination, everything is different."

"But similar enough, Dad says," Debra replies despondently, "No matter how much I tried to tell him that this guy had a different reason for killing the bastard, we were stuck in front of the Captain, who has no patience for it. They wouldn't _fucking_ budge."

Unbelievable. He was playing me the whole time, leading me through hoops, making me fear for my safety, when all along, there he was, stalking Jaworski just the same as I was. How did he know? And how do I keep him from knowing the next one?

"I'm sorry," I say. She places the beer down and leans into my shoulder. She seems to shiver a bit, so I take a blanket at the other end of the couch, unfold it, and cover her up.

"Thank you," the brunette says, "For everything."

I pat her cheek in a playful manner, "What are friends for?"

But she holds my wrist and my hand seems to act of its own accord, and stay rooted to her cheek, petting the pretty girl slightly. She spreads the hand that had been holding my wrist outwards and holds my hand, leaning into it.

She's drunk.

But it doesn't stop Debs from looking at me with those soulful green eyes of hers, like mine, but truly _alive_. She smiles slightly, half with drunken innocence of a woman who is completely smashed, half with the devious confidence of a completely sober woman.

And then, we kiss.

Which is an admirably stupid thing to do when I look at it logically. Debs will one day be investigating me, and what then? What happens when she finds out what I really am? I could care less what people like Masuka or LaGuerta, or Doakes, or even Angel think about me after that, but what about Harry and his daughter?

"You're drunk," I say afterwards, trying to backpedal out of the situation.

She snorts and looks at me in the eyes again, "So?" The brunette asks, and it's a pretty good question.

"I have a girlfriend."

"Who you clearly don't like very much."

"Cancer."

"It isn't terminal."

Damn it. Her grin spreads widely as Debs pushes me down onto the couch and kisses me again. Here I have two choices: the logical and the illogical. Logically, I would run, or make a lame excuse, or throw Debra off me; it's better to have her hate me for a little while than to see her face when they lead me to a cell. Illogically, I would continue with this insane course of action, and throw every warning to the wind, and, for lack of a better term, _fuck_ the one person I _can't_. My father wouldn't approve if he were alive and knew, Brian wouldn't approve, Harry certainly wouldn't approve, hell, even _I_ wouldn't approve. Control or no control? Meridian's message of Stoicism is leaving me with two choices: Do I snatch my body from underneath the fire and forsake Debra to keep her from being hurt, or do I snatch hers up in my embrace? This is a little conundrum, and it doesn't help that I only have a limited time to figure out the answer as my best friend-turned-charming rapist's tongue trails lower, lower.

And the Passenger cackles, and my decision is made: we do the illogical; we do that which we have no control over; I snatch her body, not mine, from the fire, and we just _do_.

And right there on the couch, too!

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>First part of a two-part chapter. Next chapter deals with Doakes and Dexter's game taking a little bit of a raise due to extenuating circumstances, Dexter trying to find a way to break up with Eliza, as well as some more mandatory psychiatrist meetings and such. Dexter and the Tamiami Slasher play their own little high-stakes game as well.

In any case, thanks for reading, and be sure to leave a review.

Geist.


	8. Heisenberg

**Summary:** Part Two. Dexter tries to reassert the Code on Mike Donovan, but is forced to make a tough decision, leading to him realizing he has feelings for someone, and is intrigued as news of another high-ranking drug dealer being brutally murdered outside his apartment his apartment comes to light. Harry is livid upon finding out that Matthews has decided to tell the press Tony Tucci is the Ice Truck Killer.

**Down on the Upside**

* * *

><p><em>"All them goin' nowhere..."<em>

-DeAngelo Rolle

* * *

><p><strong>'Heisenberg'<strong>

* * *

><p>I am on the wire.<p>

Hopes, fears, dreams, and a multitude of other perceptions and feelings and waves slosh violently in the swell below. But on the other side of that wire is _her_. Pretty, beautiful, exalted. She tells me to venture onwards, follow her to those cool green hills at the end of the tight rope. These two men hold me back but there she is, green eyes, brown hair, pretty, pretty, at the end of this long, long wire.

So I go forth, venturing on into sunshine. Off the wire and onto land, she is close. So, tantalizingly close. She stretches out hair hands, and I do too; our fingers brush for just a moment... and then I fall. Far, far, deep into the cosmos, back into the unconscious swell...

And then I am up. My eyes open to sunlight. I feel lightheaded, content, and tired, so, so, tired, even after just having slept. I try to shift into a more comfortable position, but suddenly realize that something-some_one_ lays atop me. I look down to see Debra, still sleeping, shift her head the other way on my chest, now facing the television instead of the wall. I should slap myself, but all I can do is smile.

Why'd she have to do _that_ to me?

I pat her hair for a few minutes, long, flowing strokes that cause the brunette to make slight mewling noises, like a cat, as she breathes in and out, deeply and evenly. I rub my eyes with the other hand and continue to pet Debs as I check the time, nearly jumping from shock when I see the hour.

"Debs," I say, shaking her, "Debs!"

"Hmmph? What?" She asks crankily, refusing to open her eyes.

"We're half-an-hour late to work," I reply candidly, now causing her large eyes to shoot open in shock.

"Shit, motherfuck!" Debra cries out, nearly jumping off me and the couch and realizing almost immediately that we are still naked. I suppose to keep an air of decency around my apartment, the girl covers herself up whilst picking up her old clothes, but she moves around rather awkwardly, whispering 'Ow'.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Debs shoots me an undeserved glare, "I'm _sore_," she whines, and I give her an unsympathetic grin, "I'm going to go change in the bathroom. And we have to go back to my place after that for a new outfit. I nod, watching the Officer walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. For a long moment, I sit there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what has just happened.

But then, I get up and change. The world doesn't stop just because I've committed suicide, just because I'm a dead man walking, now. Harry will kill me once he finds out because, while he doesn't know the extent to how... _abnormal_ I am, he knows I am too strange for his daughter. But, I have to admit, there's something about it that I didn't feel with Eliza. Sure, there was pleasure with her, sure, but no enjoyment to take out of it. With Debra, on the other hand, the happy-satisfied reclining feeling The Passenger and I get is as close to a sense of fulfillment as I can feel.

And soon enough, Debs is wearing the clothes she wore to Rita's house yesterday and I wear a button-up shirt coupled with chinos and we are out the door. She grasps my hand and gives at a squeeze, and for some reason, I reciprocate, at which Deb gives me a goofy, lopsided grin:

"You know I've been waiting twelve years to do that?"

"Since you were sixteen?" I question; slightly incredulous. Debs just nods happily as we reach my car, "Well, was I worth the wait?"

"Maybe..." The brunette responds in a slightly devious manner, "You'll never know."

"Well," I quip, "Then I'll take that as a no and we'll just have to keep doing it until you say yes."

Wait, _why_ did I say that?

Debs raises a delicately formed eyebrow: "Accepted," she says in a robotic manner, before breaking out into a few giggles.

* * *

><p>"Where have you been; Dexter, Debra?" Harry asks, folding his arms and staring both Debs and I down as we find ourselves at a crime scene in Little Havana. Both of us know that to sleep with your partner is practically suicidal, especially in a department like Homicide, as it leads to 'tangled feelings' and such; fortunately for <em>me<em>, I don't have feelings, and fortunate for _us_, I have a ready excuse:

"I just wasn't feeling very well," I reply, Harry nods upon seeing Debs's look of agreement:

"How is it?" He asks.

I shrug, "Getting there. Drugs are starting to wreak havoc on me, though."

"Can you still work?"

Ah, Harry, always putting safety first, right?

"Of course," I reply, "You think I'd miss a bloodbath like this one?"

"No," Harry grins.

"Speaking of which, what is 'this one'?" I ask, at which Harry's grin turns to a frown and his daughter laughs a little bit.

"Looks like a drug murder," The Lieutenant replies, snapping on some latex gloves, "The Vic is one Eric Bell, goes by the street name of 'The Cook'."

"The Cook?" Debs asks.

"Meth, right?" I ask.

"You guessed it," the elder Morgan quips, holding up the police tape for his daughter and I, "In a coke town like Miami, you make Meth and you're the king. Being the king gets you a _lot_ of enemies." Debra waits for her father to explain further, but he doesn't seem to be interested in doing so, so I do the honors:

"Miami's a trade route city when it comes to drug trafficking from South to North America," I explain to the brunette, "But that stigma is mostly the layover from the Cocaine boom back when we were still toddlers. Methamphetamine is a fairly new drug to our city, used to be a California thing, but we've been seeing it grow down here as the city became less Cocaine-dependent."

"That's it in a nutshell," Harry agrees, walking into the middle of the street, where the body had apparently been left.

"So, it's just a drug-related murder, why call me in on this one?"

"Because Narcotics is in on this and your friend from there, someone named Quinn, said this was a hit and that your guy is behind it."

"My guy?" I question, "You mean, the one that took out Guerrero's family?"

"The very same, and there's your Vic," Harry points me in the direction where an African-American man lay face-down on the pavement, a pistol lay a few feet from his right hand. Batista and Quinn both look over the body, whilst the rest of the Narcotics team looks around, slightly bored, and mostly unsure of what to do.

But I am not intrigued by Eric Bell's body. It's remarkably easy to come up with deductions of what happened: judging by the fact that Bell's wristwatch is on right arm, he is likely left-handed, meaning that he held the gun in his right hand despite that he would not be able to handle the weapon all that well. There's the possibility that he was ambidextrous, but 'was' is the operative word, so that makes it unlikely. That means he was running scared, likely because he was spooked while sitting on the upturned soapbox no less than a twenty feet from his corpse. Which means the attacker came from the front and right of Bell, causing him to bolt left, giving him a bad angle to shoot at, and caused him to get shot twice, faceplanting into the ground where he now lay.

No, what interests me much more is the boy sitting on the steps to one of the homes, sitting rather stoically in contrast to the excited people crowding around the police tape.

"Bye, Debs," I say, walking towards the child.

"Wait, what about the body?"

"Don't need to see it. The wristwatch is all you need to see." I reply, leaving behind a dumbstruck best friend-er, whatever she is now.

"I see it," she says, confused.

"No," I chide, "You're looking at it; you're not _seeing_ it."

"Well, that makes sense; thanks Confucius," Debra snarls without any real animosity in her tone of voice.

"Welcome," I slur as I make my way to the kid on the steps, "Hey, kid."

The little boy, possibly African-American, possibly Dominican, looks up, "Me?"

"Yeah, you," I say, raising my badge, "Detective Moser from Miami Metro Homicide. Did you know Mr. Bell?"

He looks at me for a moment and waves his hands, "I ain't gonna be no fuckin' snitch."

"Listen," I say, sitting on the stoop next to him, "I'm not going to try to bust you with a drug charge. I couldn't care less about that; I'm in Homicide for a reason. And I'm not asking you to snitch, I just want to know if you knew Mr. Bell."

"Shit, man, every one of us knew that nigger," He replies, shrugging.

"He have any enemies?"

"Nah, man," the boy replies sarcastically, "He just got capped twice in the back. What you think? For 5-0, you sure are dumb. Man, this neighborhood is practically filled with his enemies. They come to his house, trash it, sometimes beat the shit out him, but it never go past that, yo."

"So what was different this time?"

"Not one of them neighborhood kids. I heard this guy was _ice_, heard some motherfucker wanted this dude's head, and sent this guy, who came and got The Cook."

"The Irish mob?" I question.

"Shit, white boy, who you think I am? I'm a street rat, not your fuckin' _magical_ rat."

We pause for a moment, and I look out over the crime scene, where Debs converses, rather tersely, with Quinn and Batista and looks up at me every few seconds to check if I am coming back. Clearly she seems to be out of her element without me around. I am about to get up, when a thought keeps me rooted to my spot:

"Then why stay here?" I question.

"Huh?" The boy asks, confused.

"If this neighborhood is filled with his enemies, why'd he stay here?"

The boy raises an eyebrow in surprise, "Damn, you one stupid motherfucker," the boy says, "it's easy for you to get some fine suite on Brickell, or some shit, but we grow up hard. Ain't no nigger gonna leave because people don't _like_ him."

"Why not?" I question; I confess, I am a little more intrigued than I should be by this.

"Look at them, man. Ain't got nowhere to go. All them goin' nowhere and don't know how fast. They know where they are, they don't know how _fast_ they leave it; they know how fast they goin', they don't know _where_ they goin'."

Heisenberg's uncertainty principle in real-life. Within society. Interesting.

"What you say there?" The boy asks; he seems to be wearing a perpetual mask of befuddlement, but it is my turn to be confused as well until I realize that I uttered 'Heisenberg' aloud.

I shake my head, "It's nothing; what's your name?"

"DeAngelo," the boy says, "DeAngelo Rolle."

"DeAngelo," I repeat, "nice name."

"Yeah, well... what's yours again?"

"Dexter."

He snorts, "Dexter... nice name."

"Thanks," I grin widely, before making my way back to the crime scene.

"Enjoy your little chat?" Debs snarks.

"Had a nice conversation about the Uncertainty Principle with that kid," I reply.

Three blank faces stare at me; Masuka seems to get it, but he doesn't particularly care one way or another and continues to look for any sign of something more fantastical than two bullet wounds in the back.

"It's quantum mechanics; it has to do with the position of electrons and how we can't tell with certainty both what place they're in and how fast they're going. Don't worry about it; you people are dumb, so you wouldn't understand it."

"And that kid knew about whatever that is?" Quinn asks, "I don't even know what that is."

I shrug, "Well, that's because you're a moron. That kid isn't. Anyways, it was more of an analogy than an actual conversation about electrons."

"Whatever," Debs shrugs, "What can you tell us about the body?"

"Definitely was a hit, but I couldn't get from where. It also looks like my guy, but we'll have to see once we get the ballistics in."

"And what was that about the wristwatch?"

I sigh hysterically, "How can you all be so blind? Why would a left-handed man be carrying a gun with his right unless he was running away from something? Something that caught him off guard. Someone who had to be about ten yards that-a-way? Just proves he was surprised."

"Oh," Debs says with a curled lip, "And here I thought you were going to give me something useful."

"I just did," I reply facetiously, poking the bridge of the brunette's nose, "You're the one who has to figure out some use for it. I, on the other hand, am going to find out who ordered that hit, with the help of dear old Hyde over here."

"I thought you were Hyde?" Quinn questions.

"Go along with it, Watson," I sneer mockingly.

Quinn snorts, "Whatever, asshole."

I linger to take some photos while Debs and Batista talk about nothing, leaning against my car. When I tell them to have some respect for the old gal, the two idiots choose to sit on its hood, which wouldn't be a problem if it were Debra alone, but Angel isn't exactly the _lightest_ man in the world. Quinn makes a few off-hand remarks about how he'd kill to have a partner that looks like the brunette, but all he's got is an overweight, middle-aged man instead. I tell him, rather unsympathetically, that he is in my most heartfelt prayers and continue to snap photos of the body. Quinn also tells me to visit a C.I. of his named Anton, who apparently knows all the happenings in the drug world, in exchange for me paying the lunch bill later on. Since the crime scene is far too sparse on evidence, with few witnesses willing to speak of what happened last night, we can call the murder of Eric Bell a Cold Case... unless, of course, he is the means to an end. Unless, of course, he leads me to my uncertainty point, this killer, my Heisenberg.

So I set back to the precinct and set about filing blood reports while catching Debra's eye through the window. She sits at the other end of the Unit HQ and glances at me once every few minutes, and once she catches my eye, she smiles and (quite shamefully) blushes slightly and looks down at her work.

Well, at this rate, if Debra continues to sneak her innocent looks, we'll be the top story in the Miami Herald tomorrow.

But, the pretty brunette and I settle into a comfortable routine of doing this for a little while until the ritual is broken by my door opening, revealing a brunette who is equally as pretty as Debra, though not as tall, nor the brunette I'd particularly wish to see at this moment.

Eliza. The Forensic Scientist.

Who also happens to be my 'girlfriend'.

Who I just cheated on with little thought as to how it might look to her.

"Dexter," she says, "Would you like to have dinner tonight?"

Well, I was planning on tonight being a Dexter night, or at the very least, a Debra night. So, uh, no, I'm not feeling dinner tonight, as much as I enjoy Eliza's company:

"Not tonight, Eliza, I've got way too much work to do. Quinn's got me on this C.I.; Debs and Harry want me to help them track down the Tamiami Slasher; I've got all sorts of reports to file," Also digging up bodies, breaking and entering again, cleaning said bodies, playing my little game with the Tamiami Slasher, et cetera, et cetera.

Point being that no one can get out of doing all that, and Eliza nods:

"Oh," she says, "Okay, some other time, then?"

"Wednesday?" I ask.

"Sure," The Forensic Scientist nods and glides out of my office; I turn back to see Debs giving me a questioning look, at which I shrug.

Soon enough, I find myself at a Crab Shack somewhere on South Beach nearby the Majestic Hotel. People sit there quite candidly and listen to soft strums of a guitar whilst chatting and sucking the meat out of crab shells. Anton Briggs is the one with the guitar. Quinn tells me he's talented, but lazy. I don't particularly care.

"Anton Briggs?" I call out, walking over to the man, "Detective Moser, Miami Metro."

'Miami Metro? Ah, yeah, Joey said you'd be coming down," he responds. He is a tall, broad-shouldered, African-American man who wears a V-Neck T-shirt that has a far-too low cut neckline for a man to be wearing. But, I suppose that's how it is with the modern-day hipster movement in Miami, which is starting to take quite a hold on kids everywhere. "Damn, boy, you sure are pasty for a Miami boy."

"Drugs," I say.

Anton gives me a questioning look, "And you're police?"

I roll my eyes, "Not _those_ kind of drugs; Medical Drugs."

"Hey, I ain't in no position to judge," the C.I. lays his guitar down off to the side and smiles widely, revealing a surprisingly perfect row of pearly white teeth, "So, what you need from me?"

"You know anything about Eric Bell?"

"Sure, lots of people know about him. He was a meth dealer, had a lot of enemies, a lot of debts, et cetera, and obviously, he was found dead this morning."

"You said debts," I reply, "Debts to whom?"

"He owed a little to the Irish Mob, a lot to Russians," Anton replies, taking a sip of some bizarre looking tea, no doubt one of Miami's newest fads in disgusting drinks, "I'd look there. I don't know much about the Irish guys, but that's because they too small to really be a big-time player, but there ain't no self-respecting C.I. that don't know about the Russian's hideout."

"And what's that?"

"Little Night club down the street called the 'Perestroika', or something. It's too loud and plays too much of the European techno garbage for me, but you can try to check it out."

"Okay, I'll do that."

"Not as easy as you think, boy," he stops me as I am about to get up, "You can't get in there except by invitation."

"Invitation?"

Anton picks his guitar back up, "Invitation. They send you something like a poker chip or some other bullshit, and then you go."

"Well, I don't have a chip."

The other man laughs, "And you expect me to? No chip, no club, brother."

I nod a few times, "I've got something better, though. I'll just get a warrant."

"You do that, but I don't think you'll be able to get one," Anton quips, "Lebedev owns that place, and he's got the Justice department wrapped underneath his little finger. You're going to piss a lot of people off if you try to get a warrant on that guy."

Abram Lebedev is a enterprising foreign millionaire mogul; he apparently got rich on the oil trade in Russia, or, at least, that's how the story goes. He operates a chain of hotels in the South Florida area. He and his company, The King's Court Group, go by the rather controversial motto, 'We are Miami', as an apparent show of good faith and how they reflect the people of our fair city. However, from my time in the Motherland, I'd learned some pretty interesting things through the grapevine in Vladivostok: Lebedev has a hand in a lot of the drug and arms trafficking in Eastern Europe and Western Asia. So, when he came to America, Miami must have been the perfect place to set up. Crime is high, hope is low, perfect place for a drug/arms-dealer. He could probably even start a revolution if he wished.

I cluck my tongue in disappointment, and Anton snorts, strumming a few notes on his guitar:

"Yeah," he says, "Tougher than you think."

"I'll circumvent that, talk to a Judge or a Prosecutor if I have to," I reply.

"Good luck with that," the C.I. responds apathetically, "Don't come crying when your higher-ups chop your dick off. I've seen enough Police Dramas to know talking to a judge never gets you nowhere."

"Well, good thing I've got other shoulders to cry on," I quip before leaving the man to his own devices.

"Hey!" He calls.

"What?"

"You play?" Anton questions, indicating his guitar. I nod:

"A little."

"Next time you come, you show me what you can do, and I might be able to help you out some more, a'ight?"

"Sounds fantastic."

* * *

><p>"Perestroika," I say, walking with Harry to his office, "Apparently that's where I ought to go to find out anything on the Russian Mafia. I can't get in normally, they're likely to deny any help to the police, as they seem to be a front, so I need a warrant, some way to get in there."<p>

"Have you got any case to tie it to?" Harry asks.

"The guy who practically destroyed the Guerrero family, he was working for the Russian Mafia. I've gotten a few valid tips on the Russian Mafia, and one of them points in the direction of this night club, Perestroika."

"Dex, I'd like to help you out, but that's a leap of logic right there, no one will push that request over to a courthouse, and you know that place is owned by Lebedev. He's a friend of the Commissioner's, there isn't a _chance_ we can get a way into that nightclub with a search warrant. You'll have to find another way, Dex, I'm sorry."

I nod, having made up my mind.

Harry continues to walk towards his office, before stopping and turning to me: "You're _not_ going to talk to a judge about this. We've already got enough of a shitstorm with the Tamiami Slasher, let's not drag the Commissioner or a wealthy oil magnate into this without _absolute_ certainty. And we're still cleaning up the mess from the last time you and Batista went behind Matthews back to get a warrant, so keep your mouth shut and find another avenue."

"But, Harr-"

"Don't 'Harry' me; my hands are tied and you're going to have to find another way. Try talking to them first, before going after a warrant. Take Batista or Debra with you, we've hit a dull spot in the Slasher Case anyways."

Of course, Debs perks up at the sound of her name and looks over to us with an expectant gaze. Batista seems to have vanished into thin air, so I point at her:

"Debs, you're with me."

She nods, "Sure thing."

Perestroika happens to be on Ocean Avenue, only half-a-mile from where we found the Ice Truck a few days ago. When Debs and I reach the club, we park on the other side of the street, looking at the seemingly out-of-place building. It is decorated in the manner of most Russian buildings, brick, next to the Deco buildings so commonly seen in Southbeach. If there is one thing I have learned in my travels, it is that Russians are secretive. No, that's not racism or some irrational fear borne back from the days of the cold war Cold War, it is a cultural trait. Yes, cultures pass on traits to their people, as much as we would like to ignore the fact in our very 'individual' society. Russians are culturally predisposed to being quiet and secretive just as Americans are culturally predisposed to being overweight.

Don't frown; I'm American, too.

In any case, that means they don't look to kindly on people who nose in upon said secrets of theirs. I don't take to kindly to people nosing in on my secrets, either. It's one of the reasons I feel closer to Russian people than those of the same Irish-English heritage as I. It's one of the ironies as well, my mother's side of the family is very Irish, loud, boisterous, and fun-loving. My father's side is very British, hard-working, patient, and a little snarky for their own good. Somehow, out of that, came me, someone who's distinctly Russian in tastes.

But, I'm sure I'm boring you on my lecture on Cultural Traits, and Debs stretches a little bit in her seat:

"So, what were you and Eliza talking about?" For a Detective, Debra certainly isn't very subtle.

I wince, "She wants to have dinner."

Debs nods, "And you said?"

"No," I reply, staring off into oncoming traffic, but I don't miss the reflexive smile upon the brunette's face in my peripheral vision, "I said we'd go out and have dinner Wednesday." Debra's smile immediately vanishes:

"So, what are you going to tell her?"

I sigh, rubbing my eyes, "I don't know, I'll probably have to tell her somehow. Of course, I don't really know how."

"Sure you do, Dex," Debra chides lightly, "You've got a statement for fucking everything. You live and die on having the last word."

Do I, now? And how would dear Debra know this? Oh, right, because she thinks she can _read_ me. Meridian would say it's control issues; she'd probably just say it's because I'm an ass.

Debs pecks my cheek in a gratuitous display of affection I wouldn't have expected from the girl, "Because you're an ass," she finishes with a sly smile.

See? I can read her, too.

"Yeah," I find myself saying, "but I wouldn't know how to be delicate about it."

And it's true; I wouldn't know how to be subtle about it, though I pride myself in being a subtle person. As you might have realized by now, feeling isn't my forte, and thus, breaking news that would hurt someone's 'feelings' would be a mite difficult for me.

"Whatever," I say, "Let's see if we can get a few words out of these guys."

We leave the car behind and Debs idly asks when I'm going to get a new one, but I don't consider it. I will keep that machine until it dies. We pass by the traffic and reach the other side of the street, looking around at our surroundings before walking toward the side entrance of the building, where two mean-spirited bouncers wait and look at us like we're the scum of the earth when they spot the two detectives walking their way:

"Can I help you?" One of them says in a manner that clearly insinuates that he doesn't want to help us.

"Detective Moser and Officer Morgan from Miami Metro Homicide," I start, "We're here investigating the murder of a man named Eric Bell, and have heard rumors of a hit originating from this nightclub right here. Would you or your superiors mind answering a few questions?"

One of the grunts looks at me for a long moment before uttering, "Yes" in a growling manner.

"Yes, you will or yes, you mind?"

"Unless you have a warrant, we mind," Grunt number one says.

"I had thought you would," I sigh, "Come on, Debs, that was a great waste of thirty minutes. I'm hungry."

Debs looks at me incredulously as I brush past her and walk back to my little black Celica, which must be taking a brutal beating in the Miami heat.

"What the fuck was that about, Dex?" Debs asks once we're clear of the nightclub.

I give her a 'you're being very dim' look, "They have absolutely no reason to let us in, nor do they have to unless we get ourselves a warrant. Standing there and arguing only wastes time when we could be doing something more important."

"And what's that?" Debra asks, crossing her arms.

"Getting something to eat, first of all," Debs raises her eyebrows in a half-surprised, half-peeved sort of way at my words, "and then talking to a judge."

The brunette looks at me with disbelief, "Come on," I say, " I'll pay. Besides, isn't that what we're supposed to do? Go out to lunch, watch movies together, you know..."

"We already do that," Debs replies, flashing me a crooked grin.

"Oh, yeah," I remark in a surprised manner, "Must've already been a couple, then."

The Officer opens the door to my car and seats herself within it, "Platonic life-partners," she corrects.

"If you say so."

* * *

><p>I was not able to speak to a judge, because Harry sidelined me after Debs and I got back from lunch. But, I am not disappointed, nor do I care terribly for the next life my Heisenberg might take, every life ends, after all, but this has granted me a perfect opportunity to set the Code straight. Moral myopia be damned, I will have Mike Donovan's head soon, and nothing the Tamiami Slasher or my other friend do will be able to stop that one exalted joy! Brian is not home, probably working late, so he'll likely be asleep by the time I come back and I told Debs I have some work to do tonight, so I won't be bothered by her, either.<p>

Tonight is a preparation night, that is true, but there's something in getting the details right that is just about as satisfying as the actual act, the coup d'grace of it all.

I gather my lockpick set, two knives, a scrub for cleaning off the decomposing bodies, and a handgun, which I screw a sound suppressor onto, as well as two Etorphine syringes for protection. My spade is already in the car, so that needs no gathering. Once sufficiently packed, I clear off my property and drive towards Opa Locka.

The Bay really is pretty at night. It's a sparkling little jewel at the base of America, and in it is my body of work. It missed out on Jamie Jaworski; I won't make the same mistake on Mike Donovan.

The drive is tranquil. There is a Radiohead song on the stereo, and I drum my fingers along the steering wheel absentmindedly to the tune. I am careful to check my mirrors and observe the rules of the road; a patrol officer finding a loaded gun with an illegal sound suppressor on it might be deemed of note. But, before long, I am in Opa Locka, driving up that patchy stretch of road. I'll have to go to a car wash after this, the dust and dirt is kicking up all over the place.

I park far enough away from the cabin, having nosed my car into a place that is relatively secluded and covered by scrub and brush, and continue on foot through the forest, taking the roundabout way to get to Donovan's happy place. I find the area where I remember the bodies being and start digging after quickly surveying my surroundings. But very soon an unsettling feeling of frost descends over me, which would be very strange to most people on an April night in Miami, but most people don't have their Dark Passenger.

It's a warning to be vigilant, much like the last time I was here.

But this time, the problem becomes much more apparent when I take ten steps and come out of the underbrush.

The lights, or, rather, the one light, in Mr. Donovan's cabin are on. Now, there are multiple reasons why that light could be on, I could have left it on myself during my investigation of said cabin, though I am a very neat, very careful monster, and I would not expect myself to make such amateurish mistake. There next option is that Donovan came to visit the place in my absence and has since left the light on, though I know that while Donovan is, in fact, an idiot, he is not one to forget. That leaves only one other option. Donovan is in there right now. Perhaps reminiscing? Maybe I'll get lucky and kill two birds with one stone. Or, he could very well be in there with another little boy.

Well, as another famous Detective once put it, 'When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'

But I have to know which one it is for sure. I sneak closer to the small, rotting hovel, and stick low to the brush, taking care to make little noise until I reach one of the dirty, grimy windows. Cicadas have seem to come early to Miami and the noise gets very loud, but I barely hear it. What I hear are the Passengers insistent urges to 'be careful', to take it calmly and slowly, despite that it wants me to kill either way. Finally, I get a position by the window that won't compromise my position and peer into Donovan's pretty, witty, little world.

And, for a creature who harbors no emotions, I find myself feeling as close as I can to one right about now: there is a boy in there. There is Donovan in there. What they are doing, I will leave up to imagination, but there are some things one cannot _unsee_, and this is one of them.

I should help the child.

But the Code!

Kill him!

But then they'd ask questions.

Why were you out in Opa Locka, how did you find this kid, what's in your car, why do you have a gun? But isn't it my civic duty to help a struggling person? If I don't help him, that child, probably someone from Donovan's choir, will die.

But, then again, is it my job to care? I am no hero, I just like the challenge of killing criminals, and makes it easier to avoid the watchful gaze of the police. If I help him, it would most certainly be suicide, as I would look rather suspicious with my car parked down the road, with a recently raped child and a gun with an illegal suppressor, an illegal anesthetic, and weapons in the trunk of my car.

It would be... suspicious, at least.

And this is to reestablish the Code. And it is mostly a code to keep me safe, it never has been about saving an innocent life. There is no clause in it for that.

After all, Harry, rather unknowingly, dropped the first tenet in that Code years ago when I was eight and playing hide-and-go-seek with Debs: "Don't get caught". And I later added to never kill an innocent.

But there's nothing on saving innocents, especially when it can lead straight to breaking Rule One.

And tonight was about reestablishing the Code. Gaining the control I lost when I killed Jamie Jaworski. But what I'm feeling right now is a bit of helplessness. I back away slowly from the window as I hear a muffled cry come from the boy.

I clear my mind, and hear nothing as I slide away into the darkness. Cover the bodies I had begun digging. Back to my car, knowing that, though I can't hear it, that awful screaming is still coming from the boy's mouth and will continue until Mr. Donovan strangles the last cry out of him.

I grimace, shake my head, and drive off into the night, away from Mike Donovan's Cabin.

Such is the way of the Code.

Where is the control? I feel nothing; I feel just as weak and helpless as when I saw my handiwork lying on that makeshift table a few nights ago. How do I get that control, that Dexter back? Whatever Meridian says, there is something that I know I have no control over: the fact that I _need _control over everything. But even my control is slipping away. I just left a defenseless child in a cabin with a monster, all to keep myself from getting caught. And I know that when I next come to that grave site, the boy I saw in there today will be one of them. It is unfortunate, but I exceed that boy in importance. I am the man with a key to a locked door, and a gun to face anything, he is just fodder for the wolf inside.

So why does it feel so wrong?

Don't tell me you're growing a conscience, Dexter!

I'm going somewhere, anywhere, and I don't know how fast. I'm moving nowhere, and moving there much too quickly.

But I must be patient. I am not in this to save lives. I am not in this for the satisfaction of knowing that Donovan won't be able to hurt another child. I am not a hero. I am a killer. And like all killers, I must avoid being caught.

Because I don't help people. I'm just... _bored_.

Suddenly I find where I've been going when I find myself taking NE 163 Street, turning onto Collins Avenue, and eventually find myself in Bal Harbour and eventually outside Debs's apartment building. I know she's in by now, but why did I come here? And the Passenger gives me the answer: 'To take control', it whispers.

And Debra is the answer my subconscious provides?

I sit there for a long while, listening to the Passenger's whispers before I finally do go to the door, ringing Debra.

"Yeah?" Her voice comes down, sounding a little frantic and hurried.

"It's Dexter," I reply.

There is some jostling, and if I know Debs, it's her cleaning up all the Case Files on her kitchen table, where she usually works, "Come on up!" Her voice seems to have calmed significantly. I briefly wonder if I am capable of producing such a calming effect on a person, and I find myself enjoying that as I walk inside towards the elevators. Of course, that contented mood is immediately shattered upon remembering that I left a boy to die in Opa Locka. It's enough to put _anyone_ in a sour mood, even _me_.

The elevator ride is short, and the walk to Deb's apartment even shorter, and the moment I knock on the door is the moment she opens it:

"Hey, Dex," she greets, looking pretty even in the disheveled state she is in.

I can smell the alcohol on her breath, "You've been drinking," I chide slightly, despite that my offense tonight is much greater than hers.

"Can you blame me?" She questions lightly, "This Slasher case is fucking with me."

I kiss her. I don't know why, it's not a very sexual moment; I'm feeling very strange and Debs is slightly drunk. And strangeness and drunkenness apparently always have the making of sex. But Debra does not back away, in fact, I'll bet this is a stress reliever for her.

Well, I guess we're both getting something out of it; Debra feels a little less anxious and I finally get to control something tonight, so I what do I have to lose? So, I pick her up without breaking our mouth-connection and carry her to the bedroom and, uh... _regain control_.

Don't make fun of me.

* * *

><p>"That was..." Debs begins, breathing heavily.<p>

"Unexpected," both of us finish together, we both turn to look at each other for a moment before laughing together. The brunette takes the opportunity of laughing to curl her leg around my waist and lift herself up so that she is straddling me:

"So, what's up?" She asks, patting my chest lightly.

"Huh?"

"I mean, there must be some reason you came here; you told me you had a ton of work to do, and you don't leave your work until its done."

"I don't know," I reply, "I just felt myself drawn here."

"Come on, you're stressed," she says, leaning in close. "What's wrong?"

"Can't figure out my case," I mutter.

Debs chuckles, "The great Detective Moser, stumped? Welcome to humanity."

"Can't sleep either," I say, "Bad dreams."

"I thought you said you don't have dreams."

"Used to."

"Dex. You can tell me."

I stop for a long moment, staring up into Debra's pretty green eyes as she continues to pet me, "I feel old. Everything seems old. This is the only thing that's new."

"New?"

"Everything else is so... boring."

Debra looks at me for a moment before I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder, "Asshole!" She says, half-angry, half-amused, "I'm a distraction from boredom?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" She asks; she's in a rather dangerous mood right now, so I'll have to tread carefully:

"Nothing else seems to _mean_ anything." This stops the previously fuming girl dead. She freezes, and looks at me seriously:

"You really mean that?" She asks; I wink and tickle her sides a little bit:

"Of course," I reply.

Debra grins widely, slides off my waist and lies next to me, nestling in close, "Well," she says, rather demurely, "You can sleep here, maybe company cures insomnia?"

I realize that I haven't thought about that kid and Donovan since coming to Debs's apartment. Maybe company _does_ cure insomnia, "Maybe more," I say, then I wrap and arm around her, drawing the Officer in close and shut my eyes... Only to open them in shock to realize I meant every word.

Is that humanity? Guilt for leaving the kid behind? Meaning what I said; that Debra is the only 'new' thing in the world?

* * *

><p>"I felt completely helpless," I say.<p>

"Really?" Meridian questions, totally intrigued.

"Well, at least as helpless as a dream could make me feel," I reply, shrugging. It's easy to tell someone what you're feeling, as long as you mask it right, and I was able to spin the story of Donovan and the boy just enough to make it appear a very bad nightmare, and it's close enough to those two kids in the back of the Ice Truck to be connected to that.

The Doctor leans back in his chair; I mimic the motion, "To tell you the truth, Dex, I wasn't sure you'd come back after what happened last time. I tried to call you a few times but you wouldn't seem to pick up."

"Well, you wouldn't have reached me anyways," I smirk slightly, in a way that is meant to be unassuming.

"Oh yeah?" The Doctor remarks, "And why's that?"

"Because I was out, letting go, like you wanted me to."

"Letting go? Letting go, how?"

"Just... spending time with friends, and trying not to control everything that happens."

"And how did it feel?"

I smile, thinking about the blessedly dreamless sleep I had after my late-night rendezvous with Debs. "I enjoyed it," I say.

"That's major!" He exclaims, grinning widely, "Dexter, that's amazing."

"I know," I reply.

"But leave it to you to be stoic about it," Meridian says, smiling. I nod with what I assume is a thoughtful expression and am about to reply when I get a call. I give an apologetic look at the Doctor and mouth 'Sorry'; he silently replies 'it's fine' without missing a beat and allows me to answer my cell:

"Moser," I say into the receiver.

"Dexter," Harry? To what do I owe the pleasure? "Murder in Brickell. Debra will text you the address."

"But I'm in the middle of-" I am cut off by Deb's voice:

"Dex," she says, "You're gonna want to be there."

The call ends. I must confess that I am intrigued. There was a distinct tone of worry in Debra's voice, but I am used to that; it was Harry's reaction that was much more interesting. He was anxious, something I have rarely seen in the normally gruff, but serene man. That anxiousness of Harry's naturally arouses my interest. Could this be another hello from the Tamiami Slasher, or perhaps yet another one from the man who killed Guerrero's wife, daughter, and niece, as well as Eric Bell.

"It's a case," I say, grimacing, "I have to go."

"Sure, we can reschedule for another time," Meridian nods, "Does Thursday at 6:30 sound good?"

"Perfect," I reply, itching to get out and back to my car, which I practically run to once out of the office, a giddy feeling inside. The only thing that could make Harry sound like that is a truly special case. Even _I_ couldn't faze him like that.

The game is, as they say, afoot.

* * *

><p><strong>BRING DEXTER MOSER<strong>

Is what I find spray-painted on the walls of the house where the crime scene is, a little home in Little Havana, about three blocks from where Mr. Bell was killed the night before last. I stare at it, noting the goofy-looking smiley face drawn inside the 'O' in 'Moser' with a reverent grin. Finally! Something fresh! Something new! Something...

"It's a little bit campy, don't you think?" Batista asks, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. I look at him expectantly, and he sighs, handing me blue gloves. "Nitrile, just the way you like," the _Cubano_ says ruefully, as if cursing the gods for the fate that has befallen him.

I nod my thanks, "You know me so well," I say, putting the aforementioned gloves on.

"Has to be me. Anyone else had to be your personal 'glove carrier', he'd commit suicide, you psychopath."

"Sociopath," I correct, before we look at each other for a moment, and share a little chuckle.

"Stop tittering like a couple of faggots and get to work," Masuka chides lightly, obviously not watching his mouth very carefully.

"This is the work," I reply, "Why does he want me? And who is he?"

"Neighborhood boys said its the same dude who dropped Bell yesterday."

Ah, my Heisenberg.

"Why so early?" I ask, "He normally does his killing at night, it's 4:30 P.M."

"If I knew, I'd tell you," Batista assures me.

"Huh..." I remark, stroking my chin lightly, staring at the lettering, "Sure does brighten up a room, though. Especially that smiley face, you see that? I mean, alongside the blood spatter, it really does liven up everything."

Batista gives me one of _those _looks, "Anyone ever tell you that sometimes you say really fucked-up things?"

I snort, "Yeah. Debs tells me all the time."

"Detective Moser?" A voice I don't recognize calls out to me, I turn to see a young Asian Uni holding out an envelope to me, "We found it in the house, it was addressed to you." I give the young man a questioning look:

"Me?" I ask; the Uni shrugs and hands me the envelope, with stylized writing on it reading: 'Detective Dexter Moser'. "Huh. Maybe should wait on this."

"Maybe," Harry's gruff voice cuts across the room, "you should have forensics test it. No telling what could be in it." Vince nods and snatches the envelope out of my hands, which makes me slightly angry because I want to see what they left for me:

"Good call, LT," The Forensic Scientist winks at Debs, who returns a disgusted look, and he heads out the door.

"Well," I begin, "Shall we have a look?"

Harry nods as we move to the body of a Cuban man, shot twice in center mass, once in the head, the point of entry having been the window he is lying in front of.

"Two bullet wounds to the chest, nearly identical," I say.

"Sorry, LT," Batista says, rather randomly, and I give him a questioning look:

"What are you apologizing for?"

Harry snorts, "Leave it you to be the last one to know," he says, "Captain Matthews told the press that Tony Tucci is our Prime Suspect for the Tamiami Slasher. Even-especially-when I told him not to."

"Oh, really?" I ask, "Well, he's a good politician, he knows what he's doing. And if he doesn't, even better for you. This can't fall into your lap, sir."

"Yeah, that's what they say," the elder man snarls, presumably at Matthews, though he's nowhere nearby at the moment.

"So, we're still nowhere on this, aren't we?" Debra asks, putting her hands on her hips and indicates the body.

Batista and I both smile, raising identical eyebrows.

Debs rolls her eyes, "Can you stop with the bromantic bullshit and tell me what the fuck happened?"

"This is a trigger technique," I say.

"-Doakes told me about it, once," Batista cuts in.

"It's called the Mozambique Drill," I explain to the Morgans, both of whom wear very interested faces that I find slightly disconcerting, "Shoot twice in the abdomen, right here-" I point several feet back where two little puddles of blood lay, "-killer assessed that the victim was still advancing and shot him through the head. Perfect technique, considering the Mozambique Drill is also called the Failure to Stop Drill."

"How do you know?"

"Two nearly identical shots center-mass," I reply, "and the third severed the brain stem, no doubt, judging from where the exit wound is. Definite Mozambique drill. This means that our guy is likely Spec-Ops. We'll need to get Doakes in on this."

"Shit," Debra curses, "You know he doesn't like you."

"He also knows that this is a job, not a rivalry. I'll talk to him, Dexter, you just stick to trying and finding a way into that nightclub."

"Dex?" Masuka calls from the door, "You'll probably wanna take a look at this."

"What is it?" I ask, looking up.

The Forensic Scientist holds up what appears to be a poker chip, "You know how you said you needed to get into that night club?" He grins and rolls the chip through his fingertips, "Well, looks like you've got one."

"What?" I ask, incredulous. I get up and practically run to Masuka, taking the chip from his hand when he tells me a letter came along with it. I snatch the letter and read the contents: "Do try to be less mediocre next time, Dexter. Especially because you can _save_ the next one. Why? I can't help it. After all, I am you."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"I am you," I say, wracking my brain for what that might mean, "I am you. There must be some other clue."

"Clue?" Debs asks, "Clue to what?"

"Why, the next person he's going to kill!" I exclaim jovially, looking around the room where the man was killed.

"You sound entertained by this," Debra whispers, "More than you should."

"Of course I do, dear Debra," I respond giddily, "He's called me out. It's a game now. Something new, something fresh... The day's already looking better."

"Someone can die," her whisper become a harsh whisper.

Do you really think I care, Debra?

I answer with "And that's why I must try all the harder to find clues," instead, looking carefully for everything and anything I might have missed. The Mozambique Drill. I am you. The Mozambique Drill. Why the Mozambique Drill? There are easier ways to kill a half-drunk drug-dealer from the hood. Why such a brutally efficient firing drill for that? Especially when he hadn't used it on any of his other victims. And then, he includes the entrance chip to the Perestroika.

Why?

"Why does he do anything he does?" Debs asks, "He's batshit, Dexter."

I give her a confused look, but then realize that I asked the question aloud. I really ought to stop doing that. Think, think, think, Dexter. Debra's breathing too heavily; Masuka is talking too loudly; Batista is guffawing too loudly, I can't hear myself. I need to be alone.

"Would you stop that?" I ask, half-peeved, but still in a polite-manner, Debra gives me a befuddled look, "You're breathing through your mouth; it's loud. Use your nose." She looks affronted:

"My mouth, what the f-"

"-And now you're talking, too," I say through gritted teeth. She flashes me a murderous look, but Debra knows about my 'hunches', so she complies. Eventually the whole room descends into silence around me whilst I think.

Mozambique. I am You. Perestroika. Mozambique. I am you. Perestroika.

I feel something coming, The Dark Passenger is helping me put it together when a loud ding emanates from my pocket. I have received a text, and it better not be Brian asking about a chicken dinner with Rita and the kids again, I already said I'd go. Grimacing, I look at my phone, seeing I received the text from an unknown number, and I, for a moment, consider putting it away, but the Passenger urges me to be careful and take a look.

I am not disappointed.

_"Six hours. Don't make a hash of it. The Palace would not be pleased."_

I resist the urge to grin. The Palace must be the Miami Metro PD.

Thank you, good sir; this is_ too much_ fun.

I spend the next few hours trying to connect the three clues whilst sitting in the briefing room, having put my own 'wanted' bored next to the Tamiami Slasher's. The rest of the Department run around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to decipher the meaning of it all, but, for the most part, they're idiots, so they won't find anything.

If I could, I would sigh histrionically and make some comment about how if you ever wanted anything done, you've got to do it yourself... oh, wait. I can do that. So I do just that.

I stare at the printouts on the unmarked board with the sense that I am missing something entirely. He used a Failure to Stop Drill, or the Mozambique Drill on the victim, who remains unidentified until Masuka gets the lab-work back; left me a key to the Perestroika, and said that he is me.

What does all of that nonsense mean?

Sure, I like to think of myself as a clever man, but this is a stretch, even for me. There must be something else that I missed. Something small, but oh-so-clever! I review the text I was given. Something about it must have been there, something I am missing!

"Dex, want some dinner?" Debs asks from the doorway with a brown paper bag of Chinese Food.

I don't need dinner, I need to _think_.

But I appreciate the sentiment anyways.

"Burning the midnight oil?" She asks, taking a seat in an empty chair next to me.

"Have to, if I don't, _someone can die_." I try my very hardest not to sound condescending, but I can't help but feel like I'm mocking what she said just a few hours earlier. But she takes it in stride and nods, looking over the board just the same as I.

"The palace would not be pleased..." she mutters, stroking her chin thoughtfully.

Yes, I can _read_, Debra. Please, tell me something _else_ of note!

I shouldn't be so spiteful; she _did_ bring me food, after all. But... wait...

"Can you repeat that?"I ask, leaning forward.

"What?" Debs asks, stopping mid-bite of what appears to be Lo Mein.

"Repeat that. Exactly as you said it." I say.

"The... palace would not be pleased?" The brunette questions, confused.

"Why would he use that word?" I mutter to myself, "Palace. Palace. It has nothing to do with the police, but could easily be interpreted as so." Is it grudge? Does he feel the police pretend to be royalty? No. No... that would be too petty for someone like him.

"What are you thinking?" The Officer asks, clearly not enjoying being kept out of the loop, but I remain silent.

It's too petty, so what might an alternative option be? Palace. Mozambique Drill. I am You. Perestroika.

"Again," I order softly.

"What?" She exclaims, now incredulous _and _angry.

"One more time, please," I reply, "I just need someone else to say it."

"Dexter if you're fucking with me-"

"Please?"

She sighs and rubs her eyes, "The palace would not be pleased," every word is uttered with a little bit of loathing behind it, and I would take offense if I did not, instead, nearly upend my chair whilst getting up because I realize what his riddle means.

Debs stands up with me and I smile at the brunette widely:

"You're a genius, Debs," I say, patting her cheek lightly before I tack a piece of paper to the top of the board, as a header, that says 'Heisenberg' on it and scamper out the room, leaving a dumbstruck Debs behind.

And, on the way, through crowds of frantic Officers trying to understand the message the same as I get a text from my favorite unknown number:

_Tick, tick, tick, two hours left._

I feel now would be an appropriate time to tell the man to sod off, so I return the text:

_Abram Lebedev should be happy to know that we'll be at his house in half-an-hour._

A second later, I get a return text, which reads:

_Astute. But you really should pick him up before my timer runs out. He's gotten himself in a really bad way. Tick, tick, tick, Dexter._

I grin:

_Until next time._

He sends me a picture text of a waving cat, and I stop for a moment to admire its cuteness, until I realize I've been staring at the picture too long:

"Lieutenant!" I call out into the office crowded with Unis and Detectives from other Units within the department.

* * *

><p>"How did you figure it was Lebedev again?" Harry asks, swerving the patrol car we're in to the right to avoid a particularly inattentive old woman who cuts him off, "What are these people doing on the road?" We pass by the old lady, who no longer seems to be oblivious, but very actively extends her middle finger towards us. Harry, in a particularly peevish mood what with Matthews telling reporters that we have a suspect for the Tamiami Slasher Case, almost returns the favor when Deb slaps his hand down:<p>

"Dad!" She exclaims, affronted that Harry would even consider doing that to the poor old lady who is obviously just trying to give us a hard time.

"Yes, _Dad_!" I continue for Debs in a sarcastic manner, "That's someone's _grandmother_ over there!"

"Doesn't change the fact that she's a..." he begins to grumble but pauses upon seeing the offended look on his daughter's face, "...wonderful, wonderful, old woman." He smiles and waves at the geriatric, who amazingly still has her middle finger raised at us. I'd imagine the arthritis really is settling into that finger right about now. Combine that with the stereotype of how elderly women drive, and she should be having an accident any minute now.

I am slightly disappointed when she doesn't, in fact, crash, and instead, we rip up the Dolphin Expressway and exit onto the Venetian Causeway:

"Simple enough," I say, referencing Harry's earlier question, "He sent me a chip to enter the Perestroika. It's obvious he didn't want me to go there, or he would've given us a longer time window, so it must symbolize something else rather than going there."

"And _that _symbol's its owner," Debra finishes for me.

"Yes," I say, "And the fact that he used the Mozambique Drill is a harder one to discover, but Lebedev has had some 'illegal' operations in Mozambique, I remember hearing about it from a C.I." Harry nods, knowing that I don't have such a thing as a C.I., which he means to take as a euphemism for my time outside good ol' 'Murrica.

"And the Palace? Weird thing to call a police department... unless, you're referring to an actual palace, where kings live, or the King's Court. Not too difficult, when you think about it. And look! I even got a bona fide text to prove I'm right."

"Clever," Harry admits as find ourselves on the Venetian Islands, turning onto West Rivo Alto Drive, the street where the Lebedev's live.

Well, it's not burning in a pillar of fire, so that's one positive, let's hope the bomb squad I had Harry ordered will actually have something to do, might make up for the distinct lack of energy of the night since I went silent with my Heisenberg. Debs looks back at me and gives me a very, very soft smile that actually makes me feel a little warm inside. Me? Dexter the dark feeling all warm and fuzzy?

Perhaps I really _did_ mean what I said last night. But some things have changed now. Now, there's something else that's new, and just like Debra, it's just beginning. And that makes my cold, dark interior just a little bit brighter for the next few moments.

"One thing, though, why did you want to bring in the bomb squad?" Harry asks.

"Precaution?" I joke, Harry levels a glare at me, so I continue, "He kept emphasizing the term 'tick, tick, tick'. Stereotypes of bombs have the 'tick, tick' associated with them. Of course, I could be totally wrong and he is just talking about time, but-"

"-better safe than sorry," Debs finishes for me again; I really wish people would stop doing that.

"Yeah, what she said," I say.

Harry nods and we ride in silence all the way to the house. Lebedev lives in a large mansion that might be described as being a little _too_ opulent. Large glass panes for windows, a wild architectural design that doesn't look like it would be able to stand on its own when drawn on paper, a large pool, maybe a basketball court. Okay, maybe not a _basketball court_, but you get my point. And it looks rather pretty as ever, despite that we now know that he's trapped in his house.

Well, we've certainly got probable cause, haven't we? Some of the armored Unis break down the door, letting Batista, Doakes, and LaGuerta go in with one SWAT Team, while Harry, Debs, and I go in with another.

The house is astonishingly quiet. Perhaps they think that if they speak, a bomb will blow. Or maybe they have their mouths duct-taped shut. Which is a positive, I'd rather silence than their histrionic wailing and sniveling. It's also quite dark inside. LaGuerta's group takes the first floor while Harry, Debs, and I take the second floor. We creep up the white marble stairs, which is just a gaudy choice in interior designing, by the way, and find ourselves looking down a long hallway.

Harry calls out to Lebedev, and there is a distant cry that comes from somewhere in the house, but I can't determine where. It does, however, disturb the Zen-like state I had just been getting into, which peeves me immensely.

We come to a hallway of closed doors. It appears that my friend has an affinity for the dramatic, forcing us to go through each of the doors yelling 'Clear!' as we find each being empty, until of course, Debs opens a door and calls us over.

"Here they are; Dad, Dexter! They're in here!" The Morgan cries out. We rush over to her and find four people, the Lebedevs, I presume, strapped to chairs with what appears to be explosive-laden vests upon them.

"Looks like I was right about the bomb squad," I quip lightly, staring at the terrified family with an emotion akin to pride.

* * *

><p>"Nice work, Dex," A Uni I don't recognize congratulates me, and I mutter my most heartfelt thanks-which is, to say, very heartless-at him as he walks away.<p>

We got the Lebedev family out of the Explosive Vests and managed to disable the bombs, thanks to the always capable Bomb Squad of Miami Metro. Mr. Lebedev started to thank Harry, but the sour old man referred him to me, and the Russian man literally kneeled and started to sputter his thanks and utter gratitude at being saved. Soon his wife, who is much prettier, joined in as well. Being the modest person I am, I faked a slight blush at all the unwanted attention and murmured that it's just my job, at which they thanked me even _more _profusely.

I find that being a hero is quite overrated.

But somewhere out there is my friend, and he's no hero at all. He's been trying to get my attention, and now he really, _truly_ does have it.

"You were right," Doakes deep baritone cuts across the face of all my pleasant thoughts, "Lebedev. You were able to decipher the clues the killer left us. Your instincts were dead on."

"Well, I-" I try to begin.

"-They're always dead on when it comes to these psychos. Now why is that?"

I smile, "Because I'm smart. Unlike you."

Doakes matches my grin and walks by, lips smiling but eyes smoldering with hatred, "I'm watching you, motherfucker."

"Why does everyone have to talk about my mother that way? She is a _delightful_ woman! You should be ashamed!" I exclaim, mock-offended, but Doakes does not waver; he simply smiles and walks straight out of the house.

He may be trouble someday. But that day is not today, and I will have to make sure that day is never. There must be another way to deal with a person other than to kill them, right?

...Right?

Huh. Crickets.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I open it to see a text from, you guessed it, an unknown number:

_I've got your heart_.

It says. I look down to see a red laser set on my chest, and suddenly my normally tranquil heart picks up slightly. Oh, how alive does that make me feel! I look through the windows of other homes, but can't see where the laser originates from. I am willing to bet, however, that in one of those homes, there he waits, rifle directed straight at my faster-beating heart. I type into the phone:

_But where would the fun be in that?_

And a moment later, I get a return text:

_Where, indeed? Until next time, Dexter. _

I can't help but feel a little flutter in my chest. A real criminal that might be a match! For once! Two of them! The Tamiami Slasher and my Heisenberg. Truly, this year is shaping out to be something special!

And the laser leaves my chest as Debs walks up to me, smiling:

"Really good work, Dex," She starts, leaning against the cruiser next to me, "Really. That was fucking _brilliant_."

"All you need to do is see," I echo my words from yesterday morning with a wink.

The brunette snorts, "Yeah. You've got that right," she mutters.

We pause for a moment and stare at the Lebedev house.

"So what does all this mean?" Debs asks at length.

"What does all what mean?" I question.

She gives me a serious look, "You know; you and me. What are we doing? I mean, it's not like we can make this last, especially now that we're in the same Department, in the same Unit, no less!"

"I don't know what it means," I say truthfully.

Debs blinks and nods, before collapsing back onto the cruiser.

"You want to find out?" she questions with a grin.

"I'd like that." I reply, and she breaks out into little giggles, very un-Deb-like little giggles.

* * *

><p>Night. Beautiful, pretty, pretty night. The fat, blood-red, sneering, happy-mocking moon glares down upon Miami. The stalk is right, everything is perfect for tonight. A performance in Coral Gables, perfect, perfect! <em>And<em> he's alone. I recline in the backseat of the car, rubbing my eyes. The performance is going longer than expected, but I must wait, after all, all good things come to those who do so, right?

And, in just a few short minutes, all my waiting pays off. Here he comes, absolutely alone. I wait, wait, feeling the Dark Passenger envelope me, taking control, taking the wheel. He stops for a moment, just outside the car, coughs, readjusts himself, and steps into the car, at which point we jump up and wrap our garrote around his throat and pull tightly.

"Hello, Mike Donovan," we say in our cold, quiet voice.

He chokes slightly, "Wh-who?" We pull tighter until he is scrabbling at his throat and turning purple.

"Be quiet and drive. You'll live longer."

"Dr-drive where?"

"We'll tell you where."

"W-we?"

"Did we stutter? Drive." We let loose on the garrote, so that he can breathe, but keep it to his throat just tight enough so that he knows there is no exit. We instruct him to take the South Dixe Highway back into the city and merge onto I-95.

"Where are you taking me?" He asks, truly terrified by now.

"You will see. Drive."

Finally, we exit I-95 onto Northwest 135 Street and follow the road until we get to a dirty, rocky side road. Donovan's eyes widen in recognition if the familiar road. He slows down, hoping beyond hope that we are not taking him to-

"Turn here."

He pauses, and we tug the rope especially hard, eliciting a 'gurck' noise from the aging man:

"Turn. Here."

He complies, and we turn onto an even more out-of-the-way-looking road, which turns out to be Donovan's cabin.

"Stop the car." He complies. We pull out the suppressed USP and step out of the car, moving to the driver's door and pull the child molester out, throwing him onto the ground.

"Please," he begs, "Please, you have to understand!"

"Don't beg. It's unbecoming, Father." We drag him by the throat into the Cabin, where the six boys lay. "Look at them." We let the noose around Donovan slip. This is too good. Luck. Luck again. It's always on our side during nights like this.

"No," he whispers, scuttling against the wall.

"Look."

"Please, no."

"Look or we will cut those eyelids right off your eyes." We become impatient, "Look at what you've done!"

He looks. Six boys, all strangled and left to rot in unmarked graves.

"It took us a long time to get them clean. Very long, very long indeed. And one was so decomposing so quickly we had to pull him out piece by piece."

Terror forms first in the Father's creased brow, then into his eyes, his facial expression, his mouth, and he tries to say something but something doesn't matter. And we backhand him the moment he tries to grovel again. We hate weakness. Humans are so stale. Where is their dignity? It's always 'please, this' and 'no, that'.

Shameful.

Disgusting, filthy animals, humans are. Weak, possessive, selfish, truly abominable. He killed six boys for no other reason than that they were nice playthings it and has the nerve to blubber when the same fate falls upon him?

Do not cry on karma.

"Please, they were so beautiful... you have to understand. You have to!" He cries.

"We do," we reply, before picking the man up and throwing him to the other side of the cabin, into the plastic-wrapped area. This man does not deserve our knife. He deserves nothing of the sort. He is weak, abominable. He is no man worth being on my table. "Get up." We say.

He does so.

We look at him for a moment, and then to the tools, and grimace. I stare at him for one very, very long minute before I open fire on him with the gun in my right hand. Two bullets center-mass. He collapses onto his knees, stunned that he's been shot. Yes. This is what he deserves. Nothing more. I assess the damage for one last second before firing a third bullet into his head, and watch the man collapse onto the ground, blood and pinkish mush splattered over the polyethylene sheeting.

I sniff; it smells rank in this cabin.

But soon I set to work and the smell disappears with the high of killing and dismembering yet another disgusting inhabitant of Miami's streets.

As I stuff the last of Donovan's body parts into the heavy-duty trashbags, my eyes are drawn to the last kid Donovan had deflowered and strangled and I feel a very strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don't know what it is, truly, but Harry has described the feeling to me before.

I believe it is called guilt.

But the child did not die in vain. Because he died, I will be there to save others that I couldn't had I helped him. At least, that's what I think. Hopefully I don't let his death go to waste. There are so many others to go through before jail.

And miles to go before I sleep.

I finish cleaning up and put the garbage bags into Donovan's car and drive it out to the docks where my boat is.

All under the watchful gaze of the happy-mad, mocking moon.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Yes. Dexter did let that kid die. But, before I get anyone complaining, Dexter isn't a hero. Never was, and I certainly don't plan on making him one. Drop me a review on what you thought of the chapter. I know it's a lot to ask, but I'd be delighted if we get to fifty after this chapter.

But that could just be wishful thinking. In any case, I'd be quite happy if you left me a review at all.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll come along for the next one!

Geist.

P.S: Yes, Heisenberg is both a reference to Breaking Bad and Quantum Mechanics.


	9. Nude

**Summary: **Dexter and Debra investigate the death of a nudist. Dexter is dragged along for a ride and distracted from his new friend when MMPD begins to find surgically removed body parts all over the city. In the mean time, a man confesses to have seen the Tamiami Slasher in action.

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><p><strong>Down on the Upside<strong>

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><p><em>"How can you never slow down, never stop, never get hurt-prepare-and truly live?"<em>

-Harry Morgan

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><p><strong>'Nude'<strong>

* * *

><p>I have lived in the dark all my life.<p>

It's just something I've learned to live with. I have been in the dark since childhood. Something happened to me, something got inside me that didn't get inside anyone else in my family that turned me into what I am. No one could explain to me what I am; the man who could ever identify it most closely was Harry, but he thought it was a product of loneliness, or middle-child syndrome. It was like he found a child handed to him a nice, neatly wrapped box with a bow atop it. Aloof from classmates, distant from his family, I became an honorary Morgan; Harry's surrogate son. I wonder if he ever dreamed in his wildest dreams that I would become this monster.

And so, for the longest time, I've been stumbling around in the darkness, helped by a mentor as blind as I to the truth, until I adjusted. The shadows became my home, easy to meld into, easy to become one with.

For ten years, I've been accustomed to that inky swell that is my mind.

And in just one week, the lights are flipped on, my whole world has been upended, and I am struggling to see in the light. Feelings, emotions-altogether unholy things for Dexter the Dark-are suddenly becoming the norm. Suddenly watching a movie with Debra, eating steaks with Brian, talking to Dee or Ma, have all become... wait for it... _enjoyable_.

Me? Happy? I know, what a concept!

Debra and I have not had sex since the night where I let Donovan kill an innocent boy. Granted, that was only six days ago, but we've made significant progress in those six short days. We have shared some very tender moments, watched movies, cracked jokes, went to restaurants, ate in, and slept together.

No, not sex. I just told you we hadn't since...

Never mind. In shorthand, Debra and I have done _couple-things_, and I find myself thoroughly enjoying them, which is enough to make both the Dark Passenger and my sense of dignity (and self-worth) cringe like they've been kicked in the pants.

Brian and I have worked on that prosthetic, the entire Moser family plus Harry and Debs had a dinner at Rita's house, where, happily, I got to entertain the children for a good two hours by making odd noises and faces at them, as well as having been able to talk to Dee, whom I've seen less and less as the Tamiami Slasher and Heisenberg cases have piled atop themselves.

Eliza and I also had a very nice dinner and chat and by some miracle I managed to break up with her whilst remaining friends. Don't ask me how it happened; I'm still as a loss myself. Maybe Debs is right and I _do _have a response for anything, as everything worked out better than I expected.

And so we come to tonight. Well, I wouldn't call it night since it is six in the morning and practically almost light outside. Tonight, or this morning, is all mine. I can sleep in, I can finally make myself some breakfast, read the newspaper, and have a nice easy morning before heading to wo-my phone rings.

Damn.

I answer it to hear Debra on the other line:

"Dexter," She says, "We've got something."

"Something?"

"A foot," she replies.

A foot? I must confess; I am a little confused. I had expected to be called for something important; why should I care about a foot?

"Can't tell just yet, but the Angel says the cuts seem to be consistent with the Tamiami Slasher's M.O."

Now I'm just disappointed. He left me a foot? Especially after all the trouble Heisenberg went through to kidnap and rig that poor immigrant family to blow to entertain me? It all seems so... _mediocre._

"But there's something weird about this one," Debra continues.

Weird? I _love _weird!

"The foot hasn't been frozen. It's been cut, cauterized, but not frozen. Can you get down here and do some of the Forensic Work? Masuka isn't answering his phone." Debs asks, but I am barely listening.

Not frozen?_ Not frozen_? Why would he do that? The Slasher has spent all his free time chopping up these bodies and freezing them for a _reason_! Why would he simply disregard his own rules now? Unless, the game is suddenly that interesting to him that he finds it necessary to break from tradition.

Consider me interested. But not impressed. Never impressed. He has a lot to live up to if he even wants to come close to the level of mastery my other friend has achieved.

"Where is it?" I ask.

"Elliott Key," the brunette replies. "A groundskeeper found it about an hour ago."

"I'll be there in thirty."

So I quickly throw on some clothes and don't stop to prepare breakfast, as I had hoped I would be able to, and head out the door. Half-an-hour later I find myself pulling into the booth that sits outside the Nature Preserve, where I leave my car and venture forth on foot.

Elliott Key is a nice hunting ground. Harry and I came here when I was a teenager for a hunting/camping trip. I think it was 1989, when I was fourteen. For some reason, my father was always out of town for a man who ran a Funeral Home, always attending embalming conferences, and such-I know, embalming conferences, bizarre, right?-and Harry seemed to need the space because Debs was not exactly the nicest to him during those years, and Doris, his wife, had just died. This made the normally odd relationship okay in my mother's eyes, and so we went out to hunt and camp. It was actually here that Harry came closest to finding out what I was:

"You're different; aren't you, Dexter?" I remember his soft, tranquil voice saying as it sounded before it was tempered by years of the accumulated stress of being Homicide Lieutenant.

"Different?" I responded, naturally evasive.

Harry nodded, "You don't chase after girls, you don't try to make friends, you just... like to hunt."

"Yeah," I replied, "All that waiting. It's soothing."

"Soothing?"

Makes you appreciate the kill even more, "Yeah. It's relaxing. Everything just... goes away. I feel calm."

Harry snorted and went back to cooking our dinner.

In fact, I believe we camped out right around this area where all the yellow police tape is. Now, how's that for a coincidence? I show my badge to the Uniformed Officer who stands guard over the tape and he lets me in. There is a wide open space, and I see a bunch of cops milling about in the distance, so I continue that way until I find myself standing next to Harry, watching those involved with the Tamiami Slasher Case take a look at something that I can't quite see over the many massive bodies of my colleagues and the one slight frame of Debra, trying valiantly to keep from being pushed out the group.

"What are you doing here, Dex?"

"Got a call from dispatch. Came down here to check it out."

"Dispatch or Debra?" The elder man asks with some amusement in his voice.

I chuckle, "Debs. Apparently Masuka is on his way, so I should help out with the Forensic work until he gets here. Anything you can tell me?" Harry nods:

"The cuts were obviously made antemortem," the Lieutenant responds, "so the guy was alive when he amputated him."

I feign horror, "That's... messed up."

"Really?" Harry questions, "I thought you'd seen some horrible things when you left the country."

Yeah. I did.

"I should go check out the foot before Masuka gets here." I reply, eager to get out away from the conversation.

"Yes, of course, enjoy." Harry waves me away, and very thankfully, I retreat.

The large mass of men and Deb opens to swallow me whole, and I find myself scrunched next to the beautiful brunette. The sudden proximity causes Debs to blush slightly, but, bless her soul, she gets over it quite quickly and turns to the matter at hand.

"Well," she says, rather lamely, "there it is."

And, yes, there it is. A foot. A severed foot. Neatly cut, almost with surgical precision... but it's different. This time it isn't cold. Not cold at all. It isn't hard to deduce the meaning. Cold means the victim would be dead. It isn't cold, so it is possible the Vic is still alive. On the other hand...

"What's with the hunting get up?" Batista questions, scratching his head.

Yes, Angel, what _is_ with the hunting get up? The foot is in boots, and a decorated hunting rifle is laid out in front of it, as a sacrifice would be presented upon an altar. The only difference being that our god is much different than theirs.

I shrug at the Detective in response, "Elliott Key gets a lot of hunters and campers. Could be homage to the people around here?"

LaGuerta, who appears to have materialized out of thin air (no doubt to take credit for any good ideas laid out by one of us), nods her agreement. "I think Dexter's right," she says quietly, but with the quiet dignity of someone who has been on the job for a long time, which isn't very befitting, given her track record, "This seems to be trying to tell us _something_ about the crime. And it has something to do with hunting or Elliott Key. Maybe there was something significant that happened here in the past?"

That would be astute if I was not aware that _nothing_ important occurs at Elliott Key. At least, nothing important to a someone like me. And that's what this is, isn't it? To test how similar we are?

So the answer is not in the park, it's in me. I have to think as Shadow Dexter would. What would I do here? Why a foot? Why the hunting gear?

I'll have to figure that out on my own, however, as this isn't a message for the police, it's for whatever I am. So, I'll let LaGuerta have her fun for right now, and that will give me more time to find out what's wrong.

"Sounds like a good place to start, Sergeant," I tell the vain woman, and Debs gives me an incredulous look, at which I shrug, "I'll just take some blood samples for Masuka and let you guys take over."

LaGuerta nods and leaves me to start taking blood samples and examine angle of impact, though I'm very sure the cuts will be indicative of a surgical amputation. Batista leaves to get something from his car, and I am left working in silence, with a very vigilant Debs standing over me:

"What are you really thinking?" She asks eventually.

I feign ignorance, "What do you mean?"

"Come on," she pleads in a lighthearted tone, "I can see it in your eyes. I can always tell. You know something."

"Well, there's one thing..." I decide to be nice and throw my 'girlfriend' a little bone, "Cold signifies death. And he's done that with all his prostitutes, but left that Jaworski guy in tatters without even freezing the body. That murder was messy, quick, and nearly got him caught. Since he's gone back to the theatrics, it also means that he's gone back to working slowly, methodically."

"Okay," the Officer indicates for me to continue.

I sigh in a melodramatic manner, "Debra," I say, as if explaining a simple concept to a remarkably slow child, "If he's working this slowly, and the cuts were made antemortem, there's the possibility that-"

"-that the guy he's chopping up is still alive! Fucking hell!" Debra exclaims, finally understanding my meaning.

I nod. "Good," I say, "LaGuerta's looking for idiots to question around the area. You find the guy he's cutting up, then you've got the killer."

"Is it really that simple?" She questions, sounding slightly insecure.

Of course it isn't; it never is! "Of course it is," I respond instead, choosing to reassure her rather than cut her down, "If he's dead, though, you'll have to go about it the Sergeant's way."

"Ugh," Debs sneers, "as if I could stomach that."

"Oh, the humanity!" I exclaim dramatically, swabbing a bit of blood off the open wound on the leg.

The Officer moves closer, and for a second I fear that she might hug or kiss me, which is the equivalent of suicide when it comes to being on the same unit in the Police Department, but she settles on patting my shoulder and saying 'Thank you', presumably realizing that, while a hug or a kiss is certainly enjoyable, it is not worth the trouble to do so in public. I grunt out a response that she can thank me when we find the guy that the Slasher is cutting into.

I look at the blood-soaked cotton of the swab for a long moment, and smile slightly at it as Batista returns with Masuka, who relieves me of blood duty.

So, one hour, breakfast, and half a Soundgarden album later, I find myself back at the precinct talking to Camilla Figg, a woman who is like an aunt to me, convincing her to give me another case file since the ones in the online database are so boring... so _pedestrian_.

Camilla gives me a file on people who have suddenly been disappearing, some of them suspected undocumented immigrants, some known illegals, as well as the homeless. She believes, from the case files she's been given, that it might be an interesting case to pick my brain over: as to whether it's coincidence, or there is someone out there preying on illegals and the unlucky. In any case, it seems like a fun thing to check out, just a bit of brain-power and I might be able to find whether or not this supposed homeless killer exists, or what happens to most of the homeless happened to them-they crawled into some corner and died.

And so I return to my desk just long enough to set the files down and receive a call from Harry:

"Moser, we've got a possible murder in Bal Harbour, you and Debra get over there, Batista stays on that foot, alright?"

"Sure thing, LT," I respond, nodding brightly to the brunette, who beams widely back at me.

Sometimes I wonder if there has ever been a murder-free day in Miami, but it just seems so unlikely. For _one_ day, I wonder if Miami could resolve its disputes civilly. Probably not. And if it did, it might start a trend, meaning I'd have to take up a new hobby, and somehow I don't think pruning roses is exactly up my alley. And if there was ever a day where people didn't die, it would have to be a city of the mega-rich, but, as it seems, even _they_ can be murdered.

This surprises me slightly as I find Debra and myself staring at the clean foyer of a very large Bal Harbour home. As Debs and I set inside the home, we are struck by the inordinate cleanliness of the entire area, at which Debs says that the owner is about as anal-retentive as I am.

But, then, we start to pay attention to the pictures handing on the wall. All sorts of sexual situations that make even the infallible Debra blush at the sheer indecency of the house's decor. Man on woman, woman on woman, man on man... it appears there is no preference of sexuality for this victim, at which Debra replies that all sexuality is in some way sensuality for us.

"It doesn't change the fact that the choice of art is a bit strange when one thinks about it." I reply.

We understand why there are so many paintings once we come to the rapidly-cooling corpse in his room. There are a few Unis talking to a very distraught, and very naked woman out on the patio, who must be our victim's wife, and the victim himself lay nude on the floor, as dead as they come.

Debra and I look at each other for a moment and realize the awful truth: we are in the house of a nudist.

Now, naturally, I have an appreciation for the human body, or else I wouldn't be quite as interested in having a physical relationship alongside my platonic mind-connection with Debs, but I find when someone preoccupies the whole of their life with sex, or the beauty of the body, they lose sight of a lot of things. People often fill their heads with unimportant drivel: 'Where do I get my next lay?', 'How do I get girls to like me?'. So they preoccupy themselves with things that will often solve themselves, and when things are truly important, they explode or shut-down.

Debra and I move towards the actual crime scene. The man was killed by some form of blunt force trauma to the back of the head, and then had the front smashed in for good measure, but judging by the positioning of the body, it is unlikely that this is anything but a simple murder. Debs tells me that the wife came home and found her husband, a man by the name of Thomas Watts and a religious nudist, lying in a pool of his own blood nearby the pool.

"What's the blood telling you?" The Officer asks.

I shrug, "He was killed by blunt-force trauma. Probably a very heavy object, given that there was only one heavy stroke of the murder weapon. Upward angle indicates that the killer was shorter than he was. I don't know, but the weapon could have been anything you can find inside a garage, but I doubt it. It looks like the weapon used was heavy and unwieldy, which explains the blood pooling and the few hits on the corpse."

"If it was heavy and unwieldy, how could the killer have not been noticed by the Vic?"

I point at the bottle of Jack Daniels on one of the patio tables, "He was drunk," I reply, "Besides, look over that ledge." I indicate the ledge where the patio ends, and Debs complies, looking out over it:

"It's a boardwalk," she replies.

"A fairly obscure one, too. Not a lot of people come around so there's ample space to carry a large weapon without any unwanted attention, and even better, there are stairs that lead up to this very patio. As long as Watts was facing the opposite direction, it would have been easy for a shorter, lighter person than he to sneak up on him." I reply, looking for any defensive wounds on the fingers. As luck would have it, there aren't any.

"Any wounds?" The brunette asks, squatting and moving in too close to be comfortable for simple 'partners'.

"Nope," I reply, "Our Victim is useless, which is disservice to us, and naked, which is a disservice to the entire _world_." Debs laughs a little at that and tells me that we need to speak to the wife. When I express my disinterest in doing so, the girl practically drags me up from my squatting position and leads me to the still-naked wife, who, thankfully, is much nicer than her husband to look at.

But I feel I should be outside, like there's something I misses, something very big that I missed.

"Oh, Thomas!" She cries out, her face puffy and red. It is at this point that I realize I was wrong, and that she and her husband are both equally unappealing to look at, so I stare at the scenery porn of Bal Harbour and wonder how much a house here would go for and wait for the woman to stop blubbering. Debs, being the sensing soul she is, tries to calm the woman down, but it does not work out very well.

So, then, both of us wait for the histrionics to stop, because after a while it gets tiring and starts to sound slightly fake, but I think that might be my natural cynicism speaking. Debs seems to think the grief is one-hundred percent real.

"Mrs. Watts," Debs says kindly once the woman has calmed, "Would you like to put some clothes on?"

The widow looks hard at us for a moment, and then nods weakly. Grateful, Debra and I lead her inside the house to her room, where I let Debra watch over her as she changes. When we finally begin speaking to Mrs. Watts, most of the Unis have cleared off:

"So, tell me, did your husband have a lot of enemies?" I ask, feigning interest; I have suspicions of how the man was killed, but I'll need the Forensic Report to be sure.

"He was a businessman, Detective, of course he had many enemies," the widow replies, "but I didn't think any of them would... would..." I want her to continue, but Debs is obviously made of more sympathetic stuff and changes the line of questioning to what her perspective of what happened was.

Mrs. Watts, first name Molly, a natural blonde with pretty, sea-foam green eyes and a comely face, tells us that she had gone out to get groceries and when she returned, she went up to her room to strip off her clothes and take a shower, and she insists there was a loud noise, like a car door slamming shut as she went to the bathroom. Then she came downstairs and into the kitchen to make herself some coffee when she looked out the window, and found her husband collapsed on the ground with what appeared to be blood pooling underneath him. She tried to take his pulse, but couldn't find one and then called 9-1-1. Then the Unis came, and finally we got there. Then she goes on blubbering about some sentimental moment where her husband kept talking about the 'bonds' the night before.

Debs takes a few more questions that I don't particularly care for until I feel it necessary to ask a question of my own:

"Mrs. Watts, you said that your husband was a businessman?" The widow nods at the question, "Is there an office that he uses for work at home?"

"Yes," Mrs. Watts replies, "through that hallway over there, it's the one with the computer and the TV in it."

"Would you mind very much if we took a look through it, to see if there was anyone who might have wanted to harm him?" Asks Deb.

Mrs. Watts looks rather apprehensive, but she relents, "Fine," she replies, "but please be careful."

I smile charmingly, "Always am," and I sweep away Debs to Mr. Watts' office. We look through the simple stuff first, books on the shelf, on the desk, papers, nothing too major. I look over the desk where his desktop computer sits. Everything is so neatly ordered.

"For a nudist, he's as anal about cleanliness as you are," Debs remarks, grinning wolfishly.

I snort and reply, "At least I can find a clean pair of pants."

"Well, he probably could, too."

"Was talking about you," I quip; Debra's grin immediately turns sour:

"I may not be the most clean person in the world, but I'm hygenic," she whines, sounding as if she's actually trying to convince me.

"Not possible. Your apartment's in a right state," I reply, finding something interesting, "for someone who's so cleanly, I'm surprised he just left this book lying around like this," it's a thin black book laying slanted outwards underneath a neat stack of straight-facing books.

"What is it?" Debra asks, moving over next to me, looking at the book as I pull it out. I open it so that both of us can see it.

"Some sort of... notebook?" I question; the book seems to be written in code, which isn't in and of itself strange, as he is a businessman, but it must mean _something_. "It's a code. Possibly a diary of some sort."

"Think it could have anything in it?"

I give Debs my very best 'are-you-really-that-dull' look, "No, a man wrote a whole book in code and ended up with half his head caved in because he was just _bored_."

Debra gives me a narrow look in response: "Don't be an asshole," she says.

"Well then, don't be stupid," I deadpan lightly, causing the younger woman to giggle a little bit.

* * *

><p>Codes are becoming my life lately. Deciphering Heisenberg's Code to save Lebedev and his family, and now I've been given a foot and a little black book written Pig Latin. Well, not Pig Latin, because it'd be easy to decipher then, but you get the point. In any case, I always remember another one of my favored Harry-lines when given a seemingly monumental task, such as decoding this book: <em>Nothing stays buried<em>.

"How was the bloodbath in Bal Harbour?" Angel asks, taking a seat next to me. We are in the briefing room to hear ideas about what the foot means, as well as if I've gotten anywhere on Heisenberg since keeping Lebedev from being turned into Borscht.

I wave the book under the Detective's nose, "Codex," I reply, "Codex and a nudist. Can't even begin to tell you what it means."

"A nudist?" Batista questions whilst scrunching his face in disgust, "I've got no problem with a nude body but _conjo!_ Nudists kind of scare me."

"Yeah, me too," I reply.

"Why?" Debra asks, seeming to have materialized out of thin air, "What's so messed up about it? I mean it's a little weird, but I think killing people is worse, isn't it?"

You'd be right about that, Debs. "And when you combine both..." I begin.

"It's a clusterfuck of weird," Batista finishes for me. "It's not the nudity that weirds me, I don't think I could just go around and bear it all out like that,"

"Same here," I reply, "Something about it is personal. I don't like being naked, and it would take something special to get me out of my clothes like Mr. and Mrs. Watts." And there is a perfectly politically astute answer if I've ever uttered one before. It doesn't take a genius to see Debs's small reflexive smile, slight dilation of her pupils, and the barely noticeable pick up in her pace of breathing.

I suppose I've said something right.

Of course, it doesn't last that long, as I receive a punch to the shoulder with a: "You sound like a bitch" from the brunette. Angel gives me a little chuckle and mouths 'bitch' at me and I have half a mind to give him the middle finger.

Instead, I settle for a, "I'm the bitch, coming from the one who's on the rag twenty-nine out of thirty days?" to Debs and a "You're fat" to Batista, who immediately deflates.

"Stop insulting your colleagues, Dexter," Harry, in a rare lighthearted mood, says as he sweeps into the briefing room, "one of them will eventually get the idea to beat your narrow Irish ass in, and then where would I find a replacement Detective?"

"You could always take on Debs," I reply.

"You said it yourself: twenty-nine out of thirty days," Batista and I both guffaw at the expense of Harry's daughter, whose cheeks flush a brilliant shade of red. Eventually, the joking dies down as more people enter the room and I return to Watts' book. I look at the first line and try to decipher it:

_REIKER_ _.PTMABQMIAA_

Of course, this means very little. Reiker could be a name, but I am unsure of what the second part could mean.

The next one down says:

_F. D. .PTMCHIDRQS_

There must be something that connects the two, as .PTM appear in both lines, so it appears I'll just have to be ingenious about it. But, of course, just as I am about to retreat into my mind, a little bing disrupts my thought process. It is a text. I'm surprised to get a text, considering I _am_ at work, so there'd be no need to text me.

But, as I look down at my phone, I realize there is a need to text me:

_Number blocked_, my phone reads. I smile, open the phone, and read the text:

_Good morning_.

Good morning to you, too, Heisenberg.

_I can't say I enjoy your name for me too much; it makes me sound like a Nazi. But, I'll allow it if I can call you Mr. Bohr?_

I smirk and type back an: _If you must_, before noticing something that piques my interest.

I look back at the black book and realize how terrible this cipher really is. If anything, this guy deserves to be shot for how incredibly transparent he actually is. I punch numbers into the phone, each corresponding with the letters on the page and listen to the tone a couple of times:

"Dexter, what are you doing on your phone?" Debra asks, "We're about to start."

Ignoring her, I let the phone ring a few more times, until a soft, but slightly gruff voice with a characteristic Irish brogue uncommon to these parts answers: "Steve Reiker." I raise my eyebrows. Well, Mr. Watts is a bit of an idiot, isn't he:

"Mister Reiker, I..."

"-Dexter!" Harry calls out angrily.

"-I'm Humphrey with AT&T. How do you feel about your current wireless plan? Oh, happy with it? Okay, goodbye." I am forced to change the line of conversation since Harry wants to start his petty briefing when there's a perfectly good Codex to figure out:

Harry shakes his head, "What was that about?"

"Figured out what the codes in the black book mean. Phone numbers. Should've noticed it earlier, actually."

"Wait fifteen minutes, that book isn't going anywhere," the elder Morgan responds before waiting for the last of the Officers to file into the briefing room. I look around awkwardly and snap my cellphone shut, having seen Debs give me an amused glare; I give her father my undivided attention as he begins to speak:

"Masuka, how are the Forensic tests on that foot coming along?" Harry asks; Masuka snaps up to rapt attention and stands:

"They haven't told us anything we don't already know. It's obvious that the cuts were made antemortem, and the blood is a cocktail of drugs to dull the pain when the foot was chopped off. We don't have an I.D. on whose blood it is yet, but that should be in by the end of the day."

"Let me know when you get it; Dexter, how's Heisenberg looking?"

Other than that he just wished me a nice morning? Nothing much, "Nothing at all, really. We tried to use Triangular Tracing on the satellite towers where the texts might have come from, but it isn't an exact science and it's a pretty wide swath of land that was spit back out at us. There are Unis stationed in and around the area, but as of now, it's likely just a waste of manpower." I reply truthfully.

"So, then, I should bring them back so they'll be more useful?"

"Well, I can't guarantee that," I say whilst shrugging, "Whoever this is is good. He managed to keep from being noticed and strap a family together with bombs. He isn't going to be taken down by a few satellite towers."

"And the nudist murders of yours?"

"No farther than having just decoded the first number," I reply.

Harry nods and continues on some wild tangent about the foot that LaGuerta and Doakes came up with and I stop paying attention as it is about the most stupid, illogical thing I have ever heard. They say something about there being too many illegal poachers on Elliott Key so Tucci, who LaGuerta has taken to calling as the Tamiami Slasher, doesn't like that, so he chops off someone's foot and displays it there. I mean, really? A serial killer cares about _hunters_? Without even going into the irony that a situation involving a serial killer, a hunter of people, being appalled by a hunter of animals brings, the man kills _hookers_, he's obviously a serial murderer, not the Green River Jesus! The man's _bored_; why can't anyone understand that?

Right. Because no one else here is a serial killer.

Eventually, the hellishly long parade of idiotic pandering from the Sergeant ends and we can all return to the respective holes we came from. I step out the door and catch a glimpse of what appears to Mike Donovan's wife talking to a Uni, who tries, unsuccessfully, to calm her down.

"Please! My husband, can't you find my husband? He wouldn't leave me!" She asks, and I am caught staring at the scene, like a car wreck waiting to happen.

Fortunately, no one will pursue this, which means I get to continue my hobby and she gets to live on in blissful ignorance thinking her husband was a wonderful man that the police could never find. After all, some things are better left buried.

But Harry's words come back: 'Nothing stays buried'. Let's hope he's wrong, for this poor woman's sake.

"What does she matter to you?" A gruff and thoroughly malevolent voice asks from behind me. Me, being preoccupied in watching the aftermath of my work, am reduced to the utterances more commonly displayed by the fools here rather than myself:

"Huh?" I question.

"You fucking heard me," Doakes pushes his way in front of me, coming close in a way that is definitely not meant to be arousing, as Debs does, "You like seeing women cry? Does that make you feel good?"

He's just trying to get me to bite. The idiot. I just give him a simpering smile and reply in a quick manner, "It's like Vicodin. I get this high every time I see a woman cry. It makes me remember that not everyone had the privileged upbringing that I have had, and being a shallow, self-centered dickhead, that makes me feel alive inside. And I'm not talking about alive the way Xanax makes me feel ali-"

"Shut the fuck up," Doakes sneers, already annoyed as he stalks away.

LaGuerta walks out and winks at me, making me slightly sick, before she continues along her merry way. I walk back to my small office with Debs and we begin deciphering the black book I've been given. In a playful mood today, Debs puts her feet up on my desk and gives me a chipper smile when I express my discontent with her doing so, and reflexively, I smile back. It appears that there is more to the book, a lot more, apparently it is a codex unlocked by one five-lettered word, but there are a plethora of five-letter words in the English language, so the brunette and I quit while we're ahead and we call up Reiker instead.

He seems apprehensive when we ask him to come in, after all, we are the police. But, if he's got nothing to hide, then he's got nothing to fear. Take it from this guy, the model of perfection, doesn't do a single thing wrong and that's why he works for the police. Eventually, however, we are able to convince him to come down tomorrow once he learns of Mr. Watts' death, though, call me cynical, he doesn't seem too surprised by it.

When we call the second number, no one picks up and the voicemail is simply some electronic voice telling us to leave a message. So we send the number off to the telephone company to help us identify whom the phone number belongs to.

And so the day meanders along with, sadly, no updates. Debs and I eventually return to my apartment and eat-in whilst working on these cases, which mostly turns out to get us nothing, and we eventually go to sleep on the couch, my arms wrapped around her body as she throws a thing cover over us and I close my eyes.

* * *

><p>The sea is calm. I walk up along the boardwalk, hand-in-hand with <em>her<em>. There are rocks around the boardwalk, large, heavy, unwieldy boulders of rocks. I smile at her, and she smiles that crooked grin she often wears back at me as I pick up one of the stones. She looks up at the terrace by the boardwalk, where an old, shirtless man drinks from a bottle of Jack Daniels. Soon, something will happen. Something strange, something that must give reason to why that man will soon...

There is an audible slam, someone shutting something, likely a door. The man turns from the sea and back to the patio She and I sneak around and up the stairs and onto the patio. The drunk man sways, nude as the day he was born and we scamper to him and bring that large, large rock down on his head... watch him fall over.

No. That's not right.

There was an event. Something that _led _to this bashing in of his skull. And time stops, rewinds, and She and I move back scamper up the patio to hear a loud crack, a very, very loud crack. And in that instant, something small, quick, strikes that fat, middle-aged man, and he slumps over almost immediately, allowing us to reach him and bash his ugly, ugly, face in.

All the while, She smiles.

* * *

><p>My eyes open, and I find Debra staring at me, eyes as wide open as mine. We stare at each other for a long moment:<p>

"Bad dream?" She asks, kissing me once.

I shrug whilst responding with my own vigor, "More like an epiphany," I reply.

"Oh? About what?" Debs asks.

"The case."

The brunette snorts, "You even dream about work? Jesus, Dex, do you ever take a fucking break?"

"I guess not," I say, and Debra shakes her head in response:

"Come on, let's get you to bed," she replies, lifting herself off me, and I discover that I want her to remain close, which scares me slightly. I don't want to be close to anyone, but the silent pleas from my body for contact with another human are intense as she peels herself off me. But I follow and move to my bed quickly, holding Debs's hand and leading her there; I pull her close once we lie down and shut my eyes again.

Soon, both of us are lost in sleep, though I imagine her dreams are much more vivid than the blackness that suddenly swims before me.

In the morning, both Debs and I are awoken with the sound of her phone ringing, and the bing noise of a text being left on mine. I check to see that it is a call from dispatch, and Debs finds out that it is another one of the amputated body parts having been left out at the Sunny Isles Beach on Collins Avenue from Harry.

Thirty minutes later, we are there, standing nearby a dilapidated hotel where old finicky tourists complain about the police taking 'their time in the sun' away as we watching the shiny, golden wastes that stretch out before us into the vast oceanic oblivion-miles and miles of liquid murk, hiding every sort of secret one could imagine. A part of me supposes this is what Satan must have felt like whilst standing on the brink of hell; the other part tells me to stop making absurd literary references.

"Are you gonna come, or you just going to keep staring?" Debs asks, having noticed my rapturous hesitation.

I nod, following her out to where we spot an arm atop a beach recliner, holding a glass of what appears to be scotch and, for some bizarre reason, one of those tiny little beach umbrellas that they usually put in those terrible mojito drinks swirls around in the alcohol.

"There's something you don't see everyday," I remark and smirk at Batista, who rubs his eyes and nods:

"You could say that again, _socio_," he replies and turns to the arm, "same thing as yesterday," he stops and rubs his eyes yet again.

"Tired?" Debs questions, noticing his apparent sleepiness.

The Detective nods and yawns: "The Tamiami Slasher is fucking up my sleep schedule."

I flash him a narrow look, but rather than explain the nature of Circadian Rhythms to the man, I remain silent and wait for him to continue:

"It's the same thing as yesterday," Angel continues, stifling another yawn, "same types of cuts, not frozen, blood probably drug-cocktail..."

"But it does prove one thing," Debs says, a smile creeping onto her lovely features.

Angel inclines his head, "And what's that?" He asks.

Debra turns to me, "It means you were right," she grins ecstatically, "it means that this bumfuck is keeping our victim alive!"

"Don't get too excited," I snark, "he's keeping the old boy alive to conduct amputations."

The brunette's smile falters for just a moment, "But it means he's alive. We've still got that, he's still alive." She replies with a sort of dogged determination that causes me to smile at her, partly in awe at her hopefulness, mostly in awe at her mind-bending naïveté in such matters.

Yes, but it also means that this is another message. And what kind of message could this arm, and that leg mean? There's something special about both Elliott Key and and the Sunny Isles Beach that I'm missing. So, I think. What connects Elliott Key and Sunny Isles Beach?

What, indeed?

"Hey, Dex," Debs asks, looking out over the waters, seemingly entranced, "remember when we came here as kids? Remember, when Dee scraped her knee and you and I made sand castles with her the whole day to make her feel better? I almost forgot how beautiful this beach is."

That's right. A memory connects Elliott Key and the Sunny Isles Beach. A distant strand, a mystic chord from my unconscious-a memory, a call to _remember_!

"Yeah," I reply, "I remember."

And I do remember. It was a day similar to this one in 1988. I was thirteen; Debs eleven, Brian, at fifteen, and Dee was seven. Ben being seventeen, was too cool for us and decided to hang out with his high-school friends, no doubt getting stoned, but no one's really supposed to know about that, besides, Ben's grown way past that stage. Norman and Laura were there as well as Harry and his wife, Doris. This was a little while before we had learned that Doris suffered from Cancer, and nearly a year from that day, looking so healthy then, Debra's mother would breathe her last.

I suppose it is one of the reasons why Harry and Debs were both so affronted that I hadn't told them the truth earlier, but I suppose they can understand my reasons for hesitancy... after all, they did suffer through the pain of having a loved one diagnosed with Cancer once before.

In any case, this was a much happier period in _all_ our lives: Debs's mother and my father were both still alive. I remember that Dee fell over and scraped her knee on a stray rock. For some reason, I've always felt more attached to my little sister than either of my brothers did, possibly because I was closest to her in age. If you look at it from Brian or Ben's perspective, nothing crimps on a high-schooler's style like his seven year-old sister. But, I'm straying; Debs and I entertained Dee and kept her from focusing on the scraped knee by building sand castles for her. Dee immediately claimed herself as the high queen of Sunny Isles Beach and allowed the Morgan and I a second, smaller castle to ourselves.

I remember our parents looking rather fondly upon us, and Brian smirking at my perceived 'lameness', so we eventually started throwing around a football, leaving the girls to themselves... until, of course, Debs joined in and Dee watched from my mother's lap.

So, what did that have to do with anything? Two places now that I've spent time at in the past, but why? What am I supposed to remember from this?

I must confess; I am stumped.

"Well, I'm off," I say once I've exhausted all possibilities of what the arm could mean.

Debs sighs and stands, "Yeah, this is getting nowhere," she rubs her forehead in exasperation, "Let's go see what we can get on that nudist."

"Speaking of which," I start, "We have to go back to his house."

"Okay," Deb agrees, "but why?"

"To find the bullet," I deadpan. I must say, seeing that expression of patient confusion on Debs's face is delightful, it makes her look almost saintly. But, she knows where asking questions gets her when it comes to things like this, and chooses, instead, to simply nod dumbly and follow me to my half-dead Celica.

* * *

><p>"Fuck," Debs says.<p>

"Fuck," I agree, looking at the slight hole in the wall of the exterior of Mr. Watts' house that the Unis must have missed.

"Fuck, fuck," she replies, bending over to look at the hole, "goddamn it."

I bend over to look into the hole as well, seeing something shiny in it, and taking a pair of tweezers out of my work bag and try to pull whatever might be lodged there out of the hole.

"How the fuck does someone miss this?" Debra exclaims angrily.

It's actually pretty easy to have missed the little cut in the stucco of the home, as the entire area is covered by bushes and some older brambles of what appears to be an area where mangrove forest might have once been, but I decide the time that it would take to explain that to Debs is better spent trying to get whatever, though most likely a bullet, is in that small hole. Finally, after another thirty seconds of scrabbling for the item inside the hole and listening to the brunette mutter 'fuck, fuck,' a few more times until I pull out a large caliber bullet.

"What the fuck kind of bullet is that?"

I smile, "A sniper rifle."

"You have any idea what kind?"

I shrug, "Could be lots," I reply, "but, you wanna know something very interesting?"

"What?"

"Our friend, Mister Reiker is a licensed owner of a sniper rifle. He was an Army guy back during Desert Storm."

Debra's lips curve upward into a grin that matches mine.

* * *

><p>"Now we just happen to find a bullet that came from a sniper rifle, and it just so happens that this guy who was mentioned in the poor bastard's codex has a sniper rifle; how's that for a fucking coincidence?" Debra exclaims to her father. I don't know how it is that she manages to swear so much in front of Harry and not get slapped upside the head, but I suppose the Morgans and Mosers operate on two very different standards of politeness.<p>

"Okay, so you've called him in?" Harry asks, trying to placate his daughter.

I nod for her, "Yeah," I reply, "but only for some questioning."

"Look, Dexter, Debra," Harry says, "I need everyone to help out on the Tamiami Slasher case and Masuka says he just uncovered something huge. Doakes will take interrogating Reiker and you can get to helping out with finding this guy."

Debs and I look at each other, and both of us know we'd rather decipher the meaning behind the case of the random body parts over the death of a rich nudist. I'm fine with letting Doakes interrogate the guy.

"Sounds alright to me," I say, shrugging, "He'll probably get Reiker to confess even quicker than I can if the guy really did pop Watts."

"Okay, now get into that briefing room, we're holding a unit-session there," Harry tells us and we comply, running into Masuka on the way there:

"Who's your daddy?" He asks, an exultant mockery of a smile on his face.

"Uh... Norman Moser," I reply, slightly confused as to why Masuka would ask me that, whilst Debra says 'Harry Morgan' at the same time.

Vince's face melts into deadpan annoyance at that, "_No_," he hisses, causing Debs to chuckle at his misfortune, "I'm your daddy. Why? Because I found a bit of moss in your nudist Vic's body."

"Yeah, yeah," Debs says, "A rock was used to bash his skull in... it's a cover-up job."

The little scientist gives the brunette a questioning look, "A cover-up job? Why?"

"Sniper bullet. It's the problem with most killers," I answer for Debra, "everything has to be so clever for them. A simple solution is never a good one for them."

Masuka shrugs, "Your cynicism you must shed, young Dexter," he says, "In any case, barring being killed, I'd love to be that guy. A nudist, being able to be that open with everyone, truly it is the life of kings!"

"If you say so," I reply, "I don't think it would be that great."

"Well, Dex," the man-child says, "that's because you're so uptight about those things, if you found someone to you know... honkytonk that badonkadonk-"

"-You know those words don't mean anything, right?" I question but Masuka just barrels on with his sentence:

"-you might even like it a little!" He finishes, arms splayed outwards in true Vince Masuka-dramatic fashion.

I shake my head, "Come on, let's get into that room."

And so we go into the briefing room where Batista, LaGuerta, an unfriendly Detective named Hook, Ramos, Hale, and Sodoquist all await us. I take a seat near the corner of the room, to avoid any undue attention, of course-especially from Hook, who is not a friend of anyone moderately more successful than he is at closing cases. We all await Harry to come into the room, and so I sit and flip Watts' book between my fingers whilst thinking: What do those beautiful little appendages mean? Why is he leaving them? Is it for me? Is it for the memory? Or is it just a giant coincidence?

What, indeed?

I absentmindedly thumb through the pages of the codex before a strange thought hits me: Stock bonds. Mrs. Watts mentioned that Thomas Watts had been ranting about it the night before he died. Stock bonds. Bonds. Bonds. Like chains, restraints; or money?

I look down at the book, and remember how she mentioned that the book's code could be cracked by a five-letter word that is the base of the entire code. Truthfully, Thomas Watts had not been an idiot, he was no idiot at all. It was his insurance policy. Stock bonds. Bonds. He must have known he was to die and left the clues hidden well inside his wife's head. Something that could be easily confused for the ramblings of a businessman concerned for his money, or the key to his codex.

Bonds. Bonds. I open the book. The codex is simply a random assortment of letters and numbers but when one thinks of the words 'bonds', it... it doesn't change. It can't be 'bonds' there has to be something in the code that changes. But then I see it.

Binary Code. One has to think of it like that. Stock Bonds are often carried electronically, hidden within a wall of binary. The letters shouldn't mean anything. Only the numbers, which, coincidentally, are all zeroes or ones should be easy to decipher. I ignore the letters and read the numbers, which is astoundingly hard to do, but I concentrate, ripping one of the blank pages from the back of the notebook and I look for the first letter, which should be the first eight numbers, and it should continue on like that until the end:

01010010. _R_

01000101. _E_

Masuka bends over my shoulder and looks curiously upon what I am doing, and soon, others start to watch as well, first Debra, then Batista, then LaGuerta, and so on and so forth.

01001001. _I_

I continue doing this until I get to the end of the first page, which leaves me with _REIKER DON_. I look up to see the entirety of the room looking at me patiently. I pause, and fold my arms:

"I believe you have a case you're supposed to be working on," I say, giving the group a chipper smile before returning to my work. They begin to talk amongst themselves, and put forth the wildest theories and most bizarre, dream-like possibilities on the Tamiami Slasher's motives. LaGuerta apparently still thinks he's embarking on some sort of crusade and wishes to set forth his ideas upon the denizens of Miami, to which I snort in laughter.

LaGuerta raises a delicate eyebrow, "Oh?" She asks, "Is there something funny, Dexter?"

I match her raised eyebrow, "Yes, Sergeant," I reply, "The man kills _hookers_. He certainly is concerned about what a few poachers do on Elliott Key. And I'm sure there's a lot of pheasant to hunt on the beach."

_REIKER DONOVA_

01001110._ N_

Donovan? Donovan? I hunch over and don't pay much attention to the Sergeant's retort, but rather, I attack the codes with new fervor.

_REIKER DONOVAN MADE ME_

There is a small pip for a period.

Made him? Made him do what?

_THE BOAT. MIAMI BEACH MARINA._

Now, I could be totally crazy and this is just one-

"Jesus, Dex, how did you work that out?" Debs asks, looking down at the piece of paper I'd just been writing on.

I shrug, "Binary Code. But I could be wrong, possibly."

"Fuck me sideways if you're wrong; binary my ass, it mentions Reiker by _fucking name_! Now that is either one _motherfucker_ of a coincidence, or this jizzbucket's got himself up a shit creek with the paddle wedged up his ass!" I wince at all the indecent language:

"Please, Debs, my poor ears!" I let out a long-suffering sigh as Debs face contorts into confusion:

"But who's Donovan?" She asks.

I shrug again, "Beats me, but are you feeling up to questioning Mrs. Watts if Doakes can't get anywhere with Reiker? Maybe to ask if we can see his boat?"

"Sure, but how did you know that it was binary?" Debs questions, "And how the fuck do you know binary code?"

"I knew it was binary because if you smash all the letters together, you get the lyrics to 'Piano Man'; and as to how I know binary, well, there's a lot of things I know," I reply facetiously, and Debs looks down at the page and lets out a rueful smile:

"Holy shit, you're right," she replies, chuckling and looking at each individual letter, "these are lyrics."

At that very moment, the door bangs open and a very disheveled-looking Harry steps through the door. He strides confidently to the front of the room, despite that his tie is loosened and his hair doesn't look quite as good as it did fifteen minutes ago:

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes gruffly.

"Catching the shit from Matthews?" Masuka asks, grinning like a madman; Harry levels a narrow look at the asian man, which causes his features to slacken:

Debs looks interested, so she turns to her father and asks: "Why would Matthews be pissed at you?"

To which Harry replies: "Well, Masuka; would you like to take this one?"

The man begins to beam again, and I can tell Harry immediately regrets having enabled him, "Of course, Lieutenant," Masuka says, so very gentlemanly, but no one is fooled by his act, "Matthews is giving the entire department hell because he went on the record saying that Tony Tucci is our guy. And now, guess what?"

He stops and waits for us to answer, apparently Masuka doesn't get the meaning of 'rhetorical', which is bizarre, considering _he_ is the one asking the question. When no one else answers, Debs scoffs in exasperation and decides to entreat the Forensic Investigator with a "What?". At this, Masuka's smile becomes, if anything, even wider, which tortures the very concept of smiling into a mangled and pale shadow of itself-like the smile of rapist before he tastes his victim for the first time, or the smile I get as the anticipation builds and the knife is about to go into the poor, poor victim's defenseless body.

But, nevertheless, the show must go on, and Vince puts the 'I'm going to steal your kidney and sell it on the black market' smile away and continues:

"I got the blood report back, and the leg? The arm? Both belong to _Tony Tucci_, the night watchman at the American Airlines Arena!"

Batista groans, apparently feeling the man's pain, "_Conjo_! Poor bastard," he says.

Apparently the rest of us are too shocked to say anything, but I half-expected it. There's no way Tucci could be the Tamiami Slasher, mainly because he's too dumb, and the man did disappear. It was only a matter of time before he would start using that body for his own pursuits.

"Jesus..." Debs finally says.

"Then that means..." LaGuerta begins.

Vince nods happily, "That Tucci ain't our guy. In fact, he's so not our guy that he-"

The door bangs open and a rather unhappy-looking Uni strides in, "Sir, um," he begins with a flash of pure and utter brilliance, "Uh, Lieutenant Morgan?" He asks nervously, and Harry, being the saintly soul he is, levels a glare that could unnerve _me_. Naturally, the Uni nearly urinates himself when the Morgan asks in a poisonous, fatherly way:

"Yes, son?"

The Uni wipes his forehead of sweat that I don't recall being upon it mere seconds ago, "Uh, uhm, they found another one. Another limb at the Angel of Mercy Hospital."

"Angel of Mercy?" Harry asks, "That's been closed down for years!"

"Yeah, uhm, th-the guy says he saw the Tamiami Slasher there with the limb," the Uni continues, "dispatch sent some patrol down there to confirm before sending the word up here but it all checks out."

"You're sure?" Harry asks, leveling another stare at the Uni, who nearly audibly whimpers:

"Yes," he croaks.

Harry looks from the Uni, to all of us, each of whom stare back at him blankly, "Jesus, you heard the kid," Harry exclaims, "get off your asses and get to that hospital!"

And soon, I find myself cramped into the backseat of Harry's Crown Victoria, which makes me feel like a criminal, and I _know_ I am anything but. Debs, being daddy's little girl, gets shotgun and I try to stretch out my legs in a way that may make me fit. All to no avail, of course.

"Dex, would you stop kicking my seat?" Harry asks, tone annoyed.

I groan and answer in a short manner, "It's not my fault I'm not 4-foot-9; who do you arrest with this thing, five year-olds?"

"You'll live," Debs replies, grinning over her shoulder. I sneer at her in response and choose, instead, to look out the window.

The Angel of Mercy Hospital closed down about seven years ago after the board of trustees went mega-bankrupt. It was were the Police Department used to ship all of its injured, now we just send them to Jackson Memorial. I remember Harry had a stint in the now dilapidated hospital back in '93, soon after my father died. It was the first sign of his ongoing battle with heart disease. It wasn't a good time for either the Morgan or Moser family: we were still reeling from Norman's death, and Debs and Harry still hadn't patched over the hole left in their relationship once Doris died. But, nevertheless, Debra did love her father, so I doubt she wanted to see him dead, too. It also didn't help that I looked up to Harry like a second father. For the longest time, he was my idol, the very god I strove to be... and then there he was, wasting away in a bed at the Angel of Mercy Hospital, going from bad, to good, and then to critical condition and no one could figure out why.

Until Harry told me, of course.

First Nurse. I have long since forgotten her real name, as it has faded back into the annals of Dexter-history, the first time I had gotten so close to seeing how to truly end a human being's life.

Calling her a woman is both an insult to her and women everywhere; no, she _was_ _a spider_. Coiled around Harry, who seemed so pale and so weak; a skeleton with ice-blue eyes... nothing at all like the superhero of a man who took the time to talk, the time to understand the boy no one else seemed to. It was difficult to watch, even for me, someone who claims to have no feelings.

But _she_ was like a maestro. First Nurse. Bustling in and out his room, cooing in Harry's ear like he were her child, or her own special plaything, constantly medicating the man. And 'the man', Harry, _the man_, a man among boys, indicative of his whole sex, would look out and see her with a sense of trepidation that I had never seen in _the man_ before.

But yet, she would keep medicating, and he would keep soldiering on like a good patient.

It was only one day when Debs and I came to visit him after all our classes were done that he ever spoke of it, when I gave a questioning glance a the rather large dosage that spider was giving the then-Sergeant:

"You... notice it, too," he croaked out, sounding exceptionally sleepy.

I nodded, "Yeah," I replied. "She gives too much."

"Too much?" Debs asked, "Too much what?"

Both Harry and I fill in the missing word silently: _Morphine_. She's been drugging Harry with Morphine, slowly killing him, making him waste away. And my fledgling Passenger roared in response. It wanted her blood, the ugly, manipulative, blonde little spider. I wanted to kill her in the most painful, horrible way imaginable. One that would make even me scream. But Harry brought me back to the present:

"I don't want... anymore," he said, "no more. None. I... want... pain."

I nod in the affirmative, "I can make her stop," I replied, but I doubt Harry got the double-meaning behind my words. "Just tell me if you want it and I'll do it." I'd kill her for you, Harry. I'd kill her for you, or for Debs, or Brian, or Mom, Ben, or Dee. It was a strangely humanizing moment, given the context I was thinking about the situation I was in.

"No," he said, "holding my arm. Just make her stop, don't... don't..."

And Harry collapsed in a drug-induced slumber.

I spent the next few hours trying to keep First Nurse away from Harry, even going so far as telling her to leave once. Even when she tried, I grabbed her wrist, while all the while Debs stood on, looking lost and Harry tried to gasp for breath to speak. And when I took the Nurse's wrist, I saw something in her eyes: the cold rage of a lion being kept from its meal. She wanted to hurt me, she wanted that syringe to be a knife that she could stab inwards and twist until I collapsed, as all others did.

It was her very own Dark Passenger reflected back into my eyes.

And it was... _intoxicating_.

When I told her that Harry wanted the pain and then Harry confirmed it, she was able to mask her rage with a demure, almond smile and informed us that she'd have to tell the Doctor that Harry wasn't accepting his medication and then swooped out the room like a falcon being denied the hunt.

Debs, of course, was confused. our silent conversation went straight over her head, and she made her befuddlement known with a 'Daddy? Dexter? What are you two talking about?', a statement that both Daddy and Dexter ignored in favor of their own conversation:

"What do you want?" I asked quietly, and Harry looked up at me, very slowly, very methodically, and I don't know if it was the drugs speaking or if Harry actually felt this way, but he gave me a long, hard stare, and said:

"I want... you to _stop_ her," and for a moment, that look he gave me, and the words he spoke scared me far more than anything anyone had ever said before or since. And then, he collapsed back onto the bed, looking tired from all the exertion. There he was, telling me to stop her. Did he know? Did he care? Was he letting me?

"W-what do you mean?" I asked, unable to keep either the fear or excitement out of my voice, but he was already asleep. The Morphine strikes again.

I turned back to Debra, who, at seventeen, was far too serious in nature and looked far too puzzled by her father's actions. But her expression of confusion only matched my own as we stared at each other, holding a silent conversation, both of us trying to decipher what Harry meant.

I never did kill her. I chalked up Harry's words to delusion and simply got Debs to agree to take First Nurse off Harry. But I came so close, so very, very close. And it really was my first murder. The closest I ever got.

I barely even notice that we've stopped in front of the Hospital and that Debra and her father have gotten out. I struggle out of the tiny seat and follow the two to the dilapidated doors where a strange man looks stares out at us. Batista strolls up to the doors with a pair of bolt-cutters and fixes the blades atop the chain around the doors, pushing down and cutting the chain off.

"Are you the guy who saw the killer?" Harry asks.

The man, a bespectacled man with a close haircut and a prominent chin looks back at us with altogether terrifying little smile, "The Slasher? Sure did. Saw him with the arm, settin' it down in the Oncology ward."

In a moment, we are rushing off to the Oncology Section of the hospital, which always looks much more homely than the rest of the hospital:

"Ooh, a nighttime trip through an abandoned hospital," Debs mutters sarcastically, "gives me the fucking creeps."

"You'll live," I say, echoing her earlier statement, and she sneers at me in response.

And there, in the Oncology Department, we find an arm from elbow to wrist, holding a picture of the Ward during the daytime. We stop and stare at the arm for a long moment before Debs seems to realize where she is and begins to look very uncomfortable. I can't blame her, I suppose, if my mother had died here, I wouldn't want to be around this place much, either. Harry looks instinctively to his one and only daughter and tells her to get some air when it looks like the woman is ready to-well, I can never tell if Debs wants to cry or just punch someone. The brunette complies and Harry doesn't even pay attention to the arm as he tells some Unis to secure the area. Finally, once they leave, and Batista, LaGuerta, and Hook are the only ones who stay behind, the Morgan just looks around at the old and worn-out ward, the once sky-blue paint peeling, old metallic table tops rusting, broken wooden chairs and the like.

"Strange how things change," he remarks quietly, so none of the other detectives can overhear, "sixteen years ago this place looked... nice."

I realize he's talking to me about Doris, and I nod quickly, "Yeah," I reply, "I remember."

"It scares me," Harry admits; I remain silent, entreating him to continue if he wishes to do so, "This place. It looked so nice, and now, it's all _rubble_."

I suppose listening is better than blabbering, as I wouldn't know what to say.

"You look at this place, and it's hard to see how this ever could have housed people. People whose lives they were trying to save," The Lieutenant continues, "It's doesn't matter. If you stop changing, if you stop trying to help... if you're just a little slow... how do you prepare for things like this?"

I would like to answer with a simple 'What?', as that sounded like gibberish to me, but I phrase my question slightly differently: "Prepare for what things?"

"Cancer," he grins solemnly, "seems to come back and bite us all the time. How do you prepare? Because it's been sixteen years and I still don't know. How can you never slow down, never stop, never get hurt-prepare-and still _live_?"

"That's life," I reply soothingly, "You... don't prepare for it. You just live. And you die."

Harry snorts sardonically, "That's a cold sort of world you live in, Dexter. Can't prepare. Can only just _live_. And die. No soul?" I shake my head at the question, Harry sighs, "Makes you a cynic."

"Makes me a realist," I correct.

"All these things change, all these things fade," Harry replies, "even us."

I nod as well, "Especially us."

Batista and I leave Harry, LaGuerta, and Detective Hook to look at the hand whilst we help the Unis clear the area. Angel says to check the lower floors, so we do exactly that. As we start, I get a ring on the phone from Masuka telling me that Doakes managed to extract a confession from Reiker, meaning that my deciphering of the codex was worth practically nothing, which miffs me slightly, as I did put twenty minutes worth of work down on it and Doakes gets the arrest, but I don't let the anger linger too long.

We descend down an old, disused stairwell that seems to creak with every step to the lowest floor, and for some reason I feel the need to check the basement, the boiler room. I can't explain why, but the Passenger whispers that it _is such a good idea _and I must go, I must see, I must see the basement.

"Angel, you go on ahead," I hear myself saying, but do not feel it coming from my mouth, "I'll double back and check this way."

"You sure, _socio_?" The Cuban man asks and I nod impatiently:

"Yes. Go." It is the cold-dead voice of the Passenger and not mine that speaks, and something is tickling its senses. But, I cannot tell what yet. Angel, a good man, and an even better nuisance, finally gets the hint and leaves, allowing me to continue down the hallway to the Psychiatric Ward.

I pass through long-unused doors following the clues like a deranged idiot. But its there and I can see it. The Passenger sees it and I see it. Tobacco snuff, littering the ground like a trail of breadcrumbs. There are tables and chairs lining the dormant station, all covered in some tarp that I can't quite recognize the fabric of, but that is only of secondary importance. So I follow the trail; the Passenger lines me in cold, organic armor as I do so. The clues are here, and I am following them down to the Emerald City, perhaps where the Wizard may actually be waiting for me.

And the Passenger says to _go and that it's such a good idea_, and what am I supposed to do? Ignore him?

Never.

What a strange and foolish fantasy to deny my black-eyed angel, who is so very convinced that down this way is a prize, a prize, a prize for me! I eventually find my way out of the Psychiatric Ward, which leads me down a long hallway past incubators and rusting wheelchairs down that silvery hallway, bathed in the nighttime glow as all phantoms and ephemeral shadows of the past come rushing to me. Children in the incubators, the elderly in the wheelchairs, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, lovers, all held under this same roof, locked in the past and trapped with this ghost from the present.

Screaming, and crying, and laughing, and joy all surround me, but I don't slow down, I don't stop. I just pass along, unconcerned for the angel-headed new mothers, unaware of the wizened faces of the elderly as they go in peace, and unfeeling of the wildly distorted faces of men and women tortured into tears and anguished wails as there lives and deaths come upon them.

All so utterly alone.

Such a lonely, lonely world. A cold, cold, sort of world.

Down labyrinths and hallways and doors do I pass, seeking something that seemingly cannot be found, but the Passenger and the calming, lonely darkness bids me keep going. I cannot stop, I cannot slow.

And a slow smile curves my lips upwards as I find the basement door, and suddenly the tobacco snuff trail seems to disappear. Encased in armor, completely fearless, I push the door open and find myself at the top of a rusting stairwell, looking down at a body that writhes uncomfortably on a table below me. A nude body, eyes covered by a blindfold, missing several body parts and wrapped up in plastic wrap.

Just the way I like.

Tony Tucci, I presume?

A rising tidal wave of emotions hits me, and it feels _so very good_. How will feel to savor the kill? To chop him up into little tiny bits. I slide down the steps, taking note of an incessant dripping noise, and stalk the downed prey and pick up a knife left in a surgical tray for me.

He _wants_ me to do this. He wants me to kill Tucci. And you know what's the weirdest part?

I do too.

I don't care if Harry sees me, I don't care if Angel sees me, I don't care if my family, or my friends see me for what I really am, see me 'in the nude'. Masuka's right, it truly is the life of kings. Yes, I don't care; I don't care if Debs...

Stop it.

I do care. I care very much. I can never be 'in the nude'; I can never relinquish control like Dr. Meridian urges me. Why?

Because they matter?

No. They don't; they _can't_. I can't let them mean _anything_!

It's a matter of principle. Tucci may have done the crime of not bathing in nearly two weeks, but I hardly think a fetid stench qualifies one to be a victim of my Code. And, besides, kill a cripple? What kind of role model would I be if I did _that_?

So it's settled. I will not kill him, though it seems like such a _good_ idea. I set down the knife and then notice something else tucked underneath the surgical tray; something that appears to be a picture of some sort. I pull it out from underneath and find myself staring at a picture of a younger me standing outside this very hospital when it was still open. Harry stands with Debra, and I stand with my mother, looking for all the world like a happy family of four. Dee took the picture; it was during Spring Break the year before Debs would go off to college. All our smiles seem so... faked, so forced. Only Debra's really looks real.

And I have a sneaking suspicion this picture was stolen from my apartment.

It is at that precise moment that Tucci decides to awake from his slumber, groaning in pain, though I think it has been significantly dulled. I put the picture away and speak to him, hoping he doesn't confuse me for the Tamiami Slasher:

"It's alright, I'm a Detective, I'm going to get you out of here." I say, but the man only half-groans in vacant acknowledgement. It's only then that I notice the papyrus tinge to his skin. Fearing the worst, I rip off the blindfold that covers his face and check his nearly unresponsive eyes. Jaundiced. He's suffering liver failure. An insurance policy if I didn't have the balls to kill the man.

And suddenly, I realize the gravity of the situation. I pick up the rarely-used walkie-talkie and speak into it:

"Lieutenant Morgan? This is Detective Moser."

A moment later, Harry's voice crackles over the receiver, "Dexter?" He asks, sounding almost relieved, "Where are you?"

"Basement," I reply, "Found Tucci. Get an ambulance."

And that's all I need to say before I know they are on their way.

* * *

><p>"What's your name, son?" Harry asks the man who said he saw the Tamiami Slasher. Tucci has been put on an ambulance to Jackson Memorial, and now we question the terrifyingly calm bespectacled man, considering he just saw a serial killer. All of us give him space, but surround the young witness in a semicircle formation, Harry to my right, Debs to my left, Batista to hers, and LaGuerta to Harry's right.<p>

"Darryl Perry," he responds amiably.

"And where do you say you saw the killer?"

"Everywhere," he responds, grinning like a madman.

"Everywhere?" LaGuerta questions, "what do you mean, everywhere? You did see the killer, didn't you?"

"Yes," Perry responds quickly, prim and proper with that unnerving grin still on his face. Debs gives me a long look as if to ask what psycho we're dealing with right now.

"Okay," Debs tries her hand at getting Perry to give a real answer, "What did he look like?"

"Hmm... well," Perry furrows his brow, which makes him look excessively peeved for being in such a exultant mood, "a lot like me, actually."

"A lot like you?" Debs asks, slightly confused. Angel and LaGuerta mirror her expression of befuddlement, but Harry and I get it, both of us reaching for our service pistols quickly, but Perry seems to react even quicker than us.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" He calls for peace upon seeing our itchy trigger-fingers, "Now there's no need for that, is there?" And he turns back to Debs, giving her his full, undivided attention, "Yes. He does look a lot like me," He moves in very close to Debs, whom looks about ready to punch him, and both Harry and I reach to pull him back, but only I succeed in pulling him away from Debra. And then, he turns to look at me:

"Darryl Perry. The Tamiami Slasher. Pleased to meet you."

He extends his hand with a sloppy grin, and, naturally, I take it, match his wooden smile and reply:

"Charmed."

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong> Thank you for all the reviews last chapter, and I swear I will answer individual questions through PMs as soon as I get a chance. For right now, though, I'm completely swamped! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and feed me with more delicious, delicious reviews. Yes, I know. Deep down I'm a filthy review whore, but hopefully my work deserves it, right?

Thanks again for reading,  
>Geist.<p>

P.S. Yes, I know I'm a tease as well, considering the chapter involved nudity really only in a metaphorical and mostly unattractive sense.


	10. Zugzwang

**Summary: **Dexter and Heisenberg's game escalates.

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><p><strong>Down on the Upside<strong>

* * *

><p><em>"Something that made sense."<em>

- Dexter Moser

* * *

><p><strong>'Zugzwang'<strong>

* * *

><p>Porcelain. White porcelain. It reeks of bleach and other harsh cleaning chemicals that my nose cannot quite distinguish from each other. The pure, snow-white porcelain trails down into what was once clear water now stained a deep, murky red. My stomach stops doing gymnastics and the nausea that makes my head feel like an overripe melon recedes as I survey the bloody and chemical contents of my body in somewhat restrained horror and admiration.<p>

But, I am certain that staring at one's own vomit is considered abnormal by humans, so I choose to stand and flush away the contents of my once-hearty body. The blood-red puke swirls around the toilet, looking like an admirable copy of red Kool-Aid before flying down the drain and being replaced by new, fresh water.

Chewing a piece of gum, I exit the stall I've been in and return to the auditorium my little group of cancer buddies have rented out for the night. We graduated from the dilapidated warehouse, but, unfortunately, neither the doughnuts or the coffee received their diplomas, apparently. I take a seat next to Lila and watch two men sitting across from us, seemingly uninterested in the woman speaking about how cancer had taken her right arm, which, I must admit, would have made me cry if I were capable of crying over such things. Instead, these two men play chess on a small, portable board and quietly talk amongst themselves.

"I wonder why they even come," Lila remarks, just as entranced as I am.

I shrug, "Maybe their wives made them."

We both share a laugh at that and try once more to tune into the amputee's story, but the game of kings has always interested me, and I find it infinitely more intriguing to watch than a bitter old woman share stories about how her life was before the bane that is cancer entered into it. So, I eventually find myself watching the chess game once more.

"You know," Lila begins, "You were in there for quite some time."

She must be referring to my extended trip to the bathroom, "I needed some time," I respond whilst shrugging, still watching as one man's queen takes the other's rook.

"Something tells me," the raven-haired Englishwoman says, "time is not something you have very much of. Why waste it in the bathroom?" I don't really understand the purpose of such a question, so I just shrug again and Lila switches the subject yet again, "Your friend has been following you again."

That one stops me cold, "My friend?" A friend? Following me? Dexter does not have friends. And when 'friends' are following him, it almost always means ill tidings.

"Yes," she affirms, patting my shoulder sympathetically, "though I can't be totally sure that he means very well. Whoever it is, is stalking you, so perhaps he's not exactly a friend…"

"But probably deranged," I respond, eliciting a chuckle out of the fair-skinned woman. I turn to her once more, "You're sure that someone's following me?"

"Every day," Lila responds, nodding, "a reddish-brown Taurus. The wanker probably even followed you to this place."

It's always nice to see that Debs isn't the only woman in the world that could make a sailor blush with her colorful language, but I thank Lila and return to staring at the chess game, a action which the Briton copies. Thoughts fly around Castle Dexter; each are half-baked fears brought about paranoid neuroticism, no doubt emanating from weary and weakened me. The guy with the white queen moves it up two spaces. The old Dexter, the old soldier, the old boy you could always count on would never be so jarred by such a revelation, but the Cancer-Man is made of somewhat pudgier stuff than grim, determined, special, wonderful me and I am forced to wonder who the follower is, and just how much he has seen, but the Passenger bids me to be calm. I have not felt the need in three weeks, only nausea. I am fairly sure that this did not start up over a month ago as I surely would have noticed by now. The man with the black bishop moves it diagonally. But if the 'wanker' did, in fact, follow me to this little auditorium, or is waiting outside in his reddish-brown Ford Taurus, I can find out who 'he' is, and perhaps allay any of my fears, and if he is a threat… well, I could think of worse ways to spend a Tuesday night.

"Shit!" One of the chess players exclaims far too loudly, causing a few of the members of the therapy session to look back at him in a severe manner, at which he looks apologetically at the rest of the therapy-goers.

"What happened?" Lila asks; confused.

I smile, "If he goes anywhere, he loses his queen."

* * *

><p>Lila was right. There was a maroon Taurus that followed behind me at a distance whoever behind the wheel thought was stealthy. Of course, he wouldn't be far off, considering that I hadn't noticed him, which I find a little bit disappointing. I must be slipping. But I make sure to keep an eye out for the Taurus that will be ghosting me; I'll make sure he won't catch me out of the element again.<p>

And I caught his license plate: 7638226

But, today, I find myself looking over some of our old cases. Seven cleared over the year so far, five pending with Heisenberg. All in all, if I bag Heisenberg, I'll have done by June the amount of cases most Homicide Officers close by December.

But Heisenberg has remained entirely too quiet over the last two weeks. And with Perry in the hole, there's likely no chance that the Slasher will continue to kill unless he absolutely feels it necessary. But, Perry is not in a speaking mood, either, not without having all of Miami's attention. He wants a reporter and a page one story. The idiot. In any case, that returns me to being dull, boring Dexter until one of them might send me another love note, another piece of a killer's mind. But I doubt that will happen, so... Decomp Cases it is!

"_Espera_!" Batista exclaims as I throw some of the less promising cases on to my desk and head towards the door.

"What?" I question, slightly peeved at being denied my chance to escape.

"You'd better put that tone away," the Cuban man responds, "LT says that Mayor Gibson is coming down to the office."

"Why?" I ask, but the answer is already pretty obvious. Last year was an election year, and the underdog Timothy Gibson, who tended to lean liberal, won out. Yeah. I know. A Democrat winning? In _Florida_? Must be the turn of a new century, after all. But, all Mayors ride with the Police Department for one day to observe how we're 'protecting the community' when they are elected, and Gibson won...

"Mayor's coming to observe, _socio__. _Apparently he wanted to check out Homicide as well, given that this entire Tamiami Slasher thing blew up in our faces," Batista replies, before giving me a serious look, "Speaking of which, what's with the do?"

"The... do?" I question in a confused manner, punctuating my befuddlement with two light coughs.

"Bald doesn't suit you, Dex," Angel snorts, "and is that the beginning of a goatee? You look more like your dealing meth than investigating crimes."

"Thanks," I reply insincerely.

As if to end our bantering, the elevator dings open and a collective breath goes out the office. Suddenly officers and Detectives, even simple office workers stop and stare at an impressive man who walks out from the elevator. He is a tall man, standing about five inches taller than me, with well-swept brown hair and piercing green eyes, an aquiline nose and surprisingly angular jaw. His stride seems to be one that might push all but the most steadfast of obstacles out of the way, and it even appears some of the normally bold Officers of the Law back away sheepishly from the tall man in the Armani suit. He walks towards the middle of the room, before stopping, and rather comically, he stares around awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. So, he opts to stop the first person he sees, who happens to be Debra, and asks:

"I'm here to see Lieutenant Morgan."

Debra nods, but seems to be slightly peeved that out of all the cops the man could choose, he chose her: "In the office right there." She points to Harry's office and the man smiles, seeing his mistake:

"Oh, my mistake," he says, "I should have seen that. Thank you." He extends his hand out to the Morgan of the fairer sex, "Timothy Gibson."

Debra takes his hand, albeit in a most awkward fashion; she does not like politicians, I remember, just like her father, "Debra Morgan," the brunette replies.

"Morgan?" The Mayor questions, "Are you-"

"Lieutenant Morgan's daughter? Yes."

"Ah, okay," the man responds as Debs shakes his hand off hers, "Thank you again for the information."

And then he swoops away to Harry's office, knocking on the door before he enters. Debs sighs rather audibly and stalks over to where Angel and I watched their whole exchange:

"I fucking _hate_ politicians," she says.

I let out a long-suffering sigh to match Debra's earlier exhalation, "Yes, yes. I get enough of that from Harry, I don't need to hear it from you, too." Debs snorts and sits on the edge of my table, and all three of us stare at the closed door to Harry's office when my phone rings. I pick it up:

"Moser."

"Hey, D, it's Quinn," the man's distinct accent registers across the line, "you should get down to the Port of Miami, we got a helluva a body count tied-up in a Narcotics case. Call should be coming from dispatch any second now."

"How many bodies?" I ask.

"Seven," he replies.

"Seven?" I ask incredulously, "where do you hide seven bodies in the Port of Miami?" Debra looks at me in surprise, even Angel flashes me a raised eyebrow of both interest and concern.

"You tell me," Quinn laughs mirthlessly, "we found 'em stuffed in a fucking shipping container here. Seven Jane-fucking-Doe's, too. Looked a little bit like it might have come from that Slasher guy you picked a few weeks back, so I thought you'd want to take a look." I mouth 'seven Jane Doe's' to Angel, who looks at me in surprise.

"Thanks, Quinn. We'll be down there ASAP," I reply before setting the phone back down, at which point Batista remarks:

"Shit," he remarks, "we gotta tell the LT." Debs nods her agreement, rushing to her smaller cubbyhole with a tiny desk nestled inside it to pick up her gun and badge. I put my badge around my neck and head to Harry's office with Batista. Once there, we knock:

"Come in," comes the gruff voice of Debs' father. I open the door and Harry gives me a rather displeased look: "What?" He asks.

"Got a tip from a friend in Narcotics, he says that we've got a situation out in the Port of Miami."

"Go," he says quickly, knowing that whenever I say 'we've got a situation', it does not mean very well. I nod and hurry towards the lift, Batista and Debs following behind.

It's a strangely cool morning in Miami, unseasonably cool, in fact, considering it's 62 degrees on a late April morning, and the regular temperatures around this time verge into the eighties. And, it's raining. Which is also great. I find myself wearing an olive-green double-breasted military coat and a thin sweatshirt underneath for a hood as we step into the rain:

"Fuck," Debs sighs, "I need to buy an umbrella. Rainy season's coming up."

I nod my agreement and proceed completely warm and completely dry to my car with both Batista and Debra following behind. We all cram ourselves into my tiny automobile and I ask Batista where his Camaro went, at which point he says it's in the shop. I snort in laughter and say something witty about mid-life crises and sputtering cars as we travel to the Port and arrive there fifteen minutes after we leave from the precinct.

The Port of Miami has always been a place that makes me nervous. I don't particularly like the maze that the shipping containers create, and something about shipping containers themselves frighten me. I know, the man with no fear fears a rectangular box. Ridiculous, yes, but it's a little fear that I can't really explain.

We ditch my car in a designated lot nearby where all the Narcotics Officers parked and walk to where it seems everyone, including Homicide first-responders, is congregating. I find Quinn in a high-visibility jacket, one of those high-lighter yellow colored jackets, waiting outside the police tape, presumably for us. Debs and Batista both rush to a Uni who is handing out the jackets whilst I walk over to the other Irishman:

"Looking good, D," he remarks with no small amount of sarcasm, "you keep that jacket for special occasions?"

"Always keep a spare," I state the oft-repeated mantra of any good detective: _always keep a spare of everything_.

"And I like the drug-dealer goatee, too," he smirks. At least he hasn't called me cue-ball yet, "there's a whole, nice, trampy air about you. Look very Dickensian."

"My, _that's_ a big word," I mock, "Where're the bodies?"

"Where all the people are, genius," Quinn snarks, pointing at a crowd of Narcotics and Homicide Officers milling about a shipping container in the distance. I nod, coming very dangerously close to punching the man right in his muck-mouthed jaw, but Debs and Angel return in those ghastly jackets and I am suddenly blinded in a halo of yellow, so I choose, instead, to thank the man tersely whilst he tries to strike up a conversation with young Morgan:

"Well," he says to Debra in a way that I suppose is _supposed_ to be charming, "fancy seeing you again."

Debs cuts him off before he can continue speaking with a swiftly-placed 'fuck off' before she asks me where the bodies are. Quinn, rather downtrodden at being so thoroughly ignored by the brunette, points us in the direction of the police running about the single shipping container once more and we start moving in said direction.

"Shit," Quinn says whilst wiping his face of some moisture, "it's raining like a mother_fucker_ today."

Angel snorts, "Welcome to Miami."

Quinn just grins in response as the Cuban sidles up next to me and points out two large cranes in the distance, "I've told you I'm from New York, right?" He asks, and I nod:

"It's come up in conversation before," I respond, nodding.

"When I came to Miami," Batista says, "this was the first place I saw: the Port of Miami. It was nighttime, and kind of hard to see outside the plane. Just shipping crates and cranes, and the plane was angled in a way that I couldn't really even see the city. For a second, I thought that the Port _was_ Miami."

I give him a look of incredulity, "You said you were fourteen when you came here. Why would you think that the Port was all there was to the city?"

The elder man shrugs, "Beats the hell out of me. Probably one of those teen fears that you can't really explain. But for a second, I thought that those shipping containers were Miami houses, and I wondered which one was mine-" even Debs and Quinn snort aloud in laughter and the Detective smiles bashfully alongside them, "-I just thought it was a city of boxes, you know? And then I saw the old paper factory on the other side of the port and realized there was a real city there."

"What importance did that story serve?" I question in a deadpan manner, causing Debra to laugh slightly.

"I don't know," Batista replies, "Just felt like telling it."

"I only know one thing: if that was you at fourteen," Quinn begins, "then you must've been one retarded eight year-old."

"That's probably true," the Batista affirms amiably as we reach the Narcotics and Homicide Officers who have a few Port Officers milling about them.

Batista, being the senior officer, takes point on questioning the first-responders quite thoroughly. I meander off to where the actual bodies are and, boy, do I find them. Seven beauties, seven women, who, if Quinn is right about it being the Slasher's, are all working girls, kidnapped and killed on what they thought was a routine call. Coitus interruptus, indeed. As a man who enjoys my work, it is often hard not to admire what some other maestros are capable of. They are all chopped up and laid out in the same ritualistic pattern we have seen at all the crime scenes of the Tamiami Slasher, each occupying their own little space in his Shipping Container from Hell... or, at least, the Red Light District.

Suddenly, a text disturbs my awe at the bodies: _They're beautiful, aren't they?_

Yes, they are, Heisenberg; yes, they are. But that feeling of being watched suddenly arises and I wonder where Heisenberg could be. He could be in this crowd, dressed as any other officer, or hiding somewhere in the Port, but somehow, he can see me.

I notice out of the corner of my eye a Port Officer who seems unconcerned with the entire crime scene and seems to go on about his beat. Normally, in another city, I suppose, this would be normal, but Miami isn't just any other city: Alongside the delicious Cuban food and mostly rude residents of Miami Beach, we all seem to be fetishists of the supremely weird. I'm no exception, certainly, and it is much more common to see people staring at the scene of multiple homicide with morbid curiosity than complete and total disinterest. And, naturally, that interests me. So, I find myself stalking up to the Port Officer, who is a tall African-American man who appears to be in his late forties to his early fifties:

"The show must go on?" I say, half-questioning, half-remarking. The Officer throws me a disinterested stare for a moment, as if I had disturbed him into coming out from his moment of zen, before he turns back to another shipping container, examining it and saying:

"Oh, indeed, son, indeed. The show must always go on," he replies. "We're all just playing our parts after all."

I stare at the shipping container he is inspecting for a long while, before the port authority officer turns back with a question on his lips:

"You homicide?" He asks, to which I nod my affirmation, "I used to be Narcotics; I always wanted to get into Homicide. As you can see that never happened, even with the friends in high places."

"Friends?" I question.

He shrugs, "Yeah, your Lieutenant and me did a few cases back in the day. He was always talking about his kid. Said everything he did was for her."

"I'm sure Officer Morgan will be delighted to hear that," I reply, pointing discreetly to the brunette who looks over the bodies with an air of consternation before she says something to Batista. The Port Officer raises an eyebrow:

"Really? Damn. Has it really been that long?" He asks, "She looks all grown-up. You her partner?"

"Unofficially her partner," I reply; the interested look on the man's face begs me to explain, "Harry's got me working with Debra to show her the ropes."

He nods, "Really? I'd have thought Harry would've wanted to do that himself. If you don't mind me saying, how's handling the rookie?"

"Can't complain. She's actually a lot brighter than most of the people who come cycling through here," I reply, "But, I've been friends with her since we were kids, probably just know how to teach her right."

The man turns around with a significantly brighter look than his normally disinterested countenance, "Anthony Moss," he says, extending his hand. I take it, and reply:

"Dexter Moser." Officer Moss's face seems to light up with recognition as he looks over me:

"Yeah, Harry talked about you a lot, too. Said you were natural police." I send a raised eyebrow his way:

"He did?" I question, "I was dead-set on being a doctor until well into my twenties."

"He said you'd come around; apparently you were built for it," he replies, "Me, on the other hand, nearly got it, but I pissed off the wrong guy. Thomas Matthews, that slick sonuvabitch, had me sent down to these docks sixteen years ago. Been working as Port and Nautical Inspection since. The bastard asked me where I wanted to go when he said Homicide wouldn't take me, so I said anywhere on land as a joke, you know? And what does he do? Has me looking into shipping containers and fishing up the bodies of jumpers from the Causeways."

"Why'd they send you down here?"

"I did too much, asked too many questions, apparently wasn't a _team player_, is what they said. I guess this is where they send down all the ballhogs: a unit of gloryhounds."

I smile wryly and am about to respond when a fed-up Debra calls me back to the crime scene. I stop by her and she asks me if I just get friendly with the first person I see at the crime scene, but I am too bored to dignify that question with a response, and instead, poke fun at her highlighter jacket and move over to one of the bodies to inspect the cuts with Batista, who breaks out the photos from some of the earlier crime scenes. The cuts on the legs match, the torso, arms... Batista gives me a very excited look:

"You thinking what I'm thinking, bro?" He asks.

I shrug, "If what you're thinking is that this is the Tamiami Slasher's handiwork, then yes, I _am_ thinking what you're thinking."

"Strange," Debra begins, inspecting one of the bodies in a very deep and thoughtful manner. Naturally, I don't like it when Debs finds out something before I do, considering that I'm supposed to be the smart one, but there she is, ready to spit out something important:

"What is it?" I ask.

And, wonder of wonders, her little nugget of wisdom is: "Motherfuck!"

Now, I'll admit that 'Motherfuck' wasn't the bit of advice or the thunderstruck revelation I had half-expected the younger woman to be having, but somehow, I find it more bizarre that I _didn't_ expect a chorus of cringe-worthy morphemes from the Morgan, as these are seven dead hookers, who Debra considers to be 'her people' despite that she claims to have not had sex more than twice since college (barring our few _experiences_). I'm straying, however; Debra moves swiftly to the open shipping container and steps inside. Batista and I follow her inside to a severely cool pitch blackness. I can see my breath in the bleak air from what little light comes from the overcast skies outside the container, and while the always-prepared Dashing Dexter is quite toasty in his military jacket, Angel and Debra are both in those pitiful highlighter ponchos, and I can practically hear their teeth chattering as the brunette turns to me with a shiver:

"Goddamn, it's cold," she says, smiling, as if to ask whether I get the meaning of a half-spoken riddle of hers. And suddenly-it dawns on me: Debs thinks this could be our killer's workplace. I mean, it's a sound idea. It's cold, narrow... We find who owns a refrigerated shipping container with prime access from the parking lot of the Port, and if it connects in any way to the Tamiami Slasher-

Debs seems to understand that I have been enlightened and chooses to speak instead of giving me time to collect my thoughts: "We can trace this container number back to the owner and if it belongs to Perry, then we know for sure that we've got him."

My, my, Debra seems very excited for a person who is looking in the wrong direction. Apparently I am the only one to see that Darryl Perry has had little to no training with knives or how to dismember people, he has no priors, barely finished high school, and lives in a beaten-up trailer up in North Miami. Perry is a grade-A hick, not a mass-murdering genius. Of course, that might be my indignation speaking, but the Passenger and I have a hunch about this guy-and our hunches are very rarely wrong.

"We ought to get this back to Harry, then" I say, wiping off some of the rain from my jacket as Debs nods and follows me out to my car; Angel says he'll stay behind and wait for Forensics to show up because the Port is nearby one of his favorite restaurants and he can grab lunch there once he's done.

I drive Deb back to the precinct and let her take point on telling Harry about the girls in the shipping container because she seems so very excited to tell him, and this, _technically_, is still part of her investigation, so I'm, _technically_, not supposed to be there.

But I stand by Debra, the stoic soldier of the Light Brigade charging into the valley of death, as she speaks to her father, who calls Matthews down to hear this. Of course, the Captain is not terribly impressed by his Lieutenant's daughter's discovery, choosing to turn back to said Lieutenant and growl out: "There are _seven_ more bodies?" in a rather threatening manner.

To which Harry responds, "Yes."

I would chuckle, but, fortunately, better judgment wins out in realizing that, while Debra may be the lowest in rank out of us four, she has more pull with both the Lieutenant and the Captain than I could ever hope for. That, and the story Officer Moss entertained me with down on the docks; asking too many questions or laughing out of turn might be enough to peeve the esteemed senior member of the Homicide Department, an just enough to turn big-bad Homicide Detective Moser to Sailorboy Moser.

Matthews, once again, growls out something about how Perry's bail hearing is today, and someone had better get on helping present these facts to the court. He also makes quite a jab at Harry's previously stellar compstat rate, which hovered at a tri-county-high 59.3 percent prior to the Tamiami Slasher and the lesser known, but equally important Heisenberg, is now about to fall into the upper-twenties with seven new deaths, and Harry levels one of those glares at the Captain, who makes quite light of the glare that could crumble lesser men.

It is with some discomfort in the suddenly still room that I notice I have been sent a text; Harry has me leave the office while he attempts to talk down the Captain, so I check the message I have just received. With a building sense of excitement, I see that the number it was sent from is listed as unknown. I open the text to read:

_You've got the wrong man, you know?_

So, I type back a _Yes, I know_ to my friend and continue on towards the Forensics office that I have come to occupy. In a moment, I receive another text that says: _I can tell you how to figure out he's a fraud if you do something for me. But you have to promise_.

You wouldn't hold it against me for being skeptical about making deals with criminals, so I send a _What kind of something?_

And seconds later, the return reply, _That codex you found at that nudist's house. Follow the crumbs._

I must say, that is a bizarre, and altogether too-innocent-sounding sort of offer. _And what will you give me in return__?_

_Tell your Lieutenant to have the firewalls checked._

Interesting. _I won't promise anything_.

But there is no return text and I stride into my office long enough to grab my jacket and the old codex that I tried to return to Mrs. Watts, but she said she didn't want it if it had anything to do with her husband's death. So, that left me the sole carrier and I found the need for a code too interesting to have dropped it off in evidence, considering Doakes had gotten a confession out of Reiker without it. I leave the message with LaGuerta saying I'm headed out to lunch and the elder woman gives me a sullen, aristocratic nod:

"What's with the long face?" I don't really care what's with her face, whether short or long, but it is polite to ask so, and I live and die on the notion of politeness for obvious reasons.

She rubs her forehead, thumb resting on her temple as her index and middle fingers run long strokes across her frontal bone as she speaks, "This Perry _hijo de puta_. He _knows_ things, things he shouldn't."

"Things he shouldn't?"

"About Department Records," she says, but will go no further. Apparently Mr. Perry somehow got to the normally unshakable woman, and I find that somewhat interesting.

"He's just a pretender," I reply, "Ask him about the bodies we found in the Port of Miami, if he seems to be surprised by it, then we'll know we've got a psycho looking for his fifteen minutes of fame inside and a monster waiting to kill again outside."

LaGuerta nods and smiles, putting a hand on my arm as I try to pull away unsuccessfully, "That's a good idea, Dexter. Thank you."

"Always happy to help," I reply, before stalking off to the elevators.

Once outside, in the bone-chilling rain, I notice another wonder of wonders. An unattended car. An unattended Ford Taurus. An unattended maroon Ford Taurus. Parked in the Miami Metro Police Department Parking Lot. With the license plate _7638226_.

I'm starting to believe in miracles.

So, instead of going out to lunch, I head back into the building and to the car pool and ask to check out a car from the cop at the desk, a spry young Nicaraguan lad named, yet another wonder, _Dexter_ da Silva.

"Hey, other-Dex!" He calls out jovially, "that piece of crap Toyota finally break on you?"

"Hmm... something like that, other-Dex," I reply, looking at the sign-out sheets, "any cars worth taking?"

"We caught a Trans-Am in a drug raid, and took a Merc off a guy who's been defrauding the state for years, but I don't think either is quite your style." He smirks, "No, the Pontiac's too much bullshark testosterone and the Merc is too much a tiny prick."

"Thanks for the visual," I say distractedly, looking for the Maroon Ford Taurus with the license number 7638226.

"Well, what're you in for? Here, you know what? You need to live a little. Take the Trans-Am out for now."

I don't really pay attention because I found out who the man in the Ford Taurus is. The car has been loaned to one very mean, very hungry Detective James Doakes.

Doakes.

Yes, the man has always had it out for me, and he's always said that he's watching me. Oh, correction, he's watching me, _motherfucker__. _But he's never actually tried to do any of that, and all of the sudden he's following me?

What does he know?

And how do I lose him?

"Sign right there," da Silva says.

"Huh?" I ask, looking up from him, completely snapped away from my thoughts.

The younger man grins, "Must've lost you there for a moment," he says, "sign here for the Trans-Am."

I sign. Well, that will get me free from Doakes for at least today, but I'll need a more permanent way to keep him off me should he decide to keep being a nuisance. In a moment, I am given the keys to a black Trans-Am that nearly flies out of the parking garage. I had nearly forgotten that most cars have more power than my half-dead Celica. I smile to myself slightly, a small pleasure in being able to drive a car that sticks out so much that it hides me. No one world ever expect Dexter Moser to drive something so gaudy, so... testosterone-laden. I am a man of simple, yet refined tastes. A man who enjoys simple wines, rather than hard liquor, and yet here I am in the dream-car of a man having a midlife crisis.

It's the perfect disguise to get out the precinct without Doakes taking notice. I even find the man standing by his car looking rather lost, trying to search me out among the crowd, but I am long gone in search of the Miami Beach pier where Mr. Watts kept his old boat before he even enters his car.

Fortunately, there is a working radio in my specific car, which is so very rare in automobiles that are more than ten years old, so I get to hear some music on the way down to the pier. I don't know about you, but something seems right about listening to a Joy Division song whilst its storming fiercely outside.

Before long, I find myself exiting the car and I wrap my jacket tightly around me, raising up the hood to shield myself from the thin, spear-like droplets of rain. I walk along the boardwalk onto the dock where Watts' boat is situated, but the tensing of black, leathery wings tells me to be cautious, and I am forced to wonder what it could be that the Passenger is so worried about. I ditched Doakes, Heisenberg wants me here... of course, never trust a serial killer. I let the Passenger's wave icy awareness wash over me and stop cold for a moment, before I notice a black BMW M3 sitting idly in the lot nearby the water's edge.

This is who the passenger bids me be wary of, and so I certainly shall be wary of them. I maneuver away from them and take the roundabout way towards the yacht in question, which would elude me from any onlookers in the lot. I would have preferred having one of my other guns on me, but my service 92FS will have to do if I find myself in a jam. A flash of lightning is seen and a sound of thunder is heard as I stalk quietly over to the _Piano Man_, Watts' boat.

I come aboard after checking for any signs of life on the boat. It is a nice boat, I must admit. Much better than my Whaler, which looks like a little dinghy in comparison to the behemoth I now stand aboard. The locks, however, are not quite as state-of-the-art as one might expect on something of this value-a simple key-in-hole lock. With my lockpicks and a little bit of elbow grease, the lock twists and the glass sliding door is opened into a very chic, modern living space that is much warmer than the freezing rain and the bleak temperature outside.

Now. To set out to find... _something_. Something that Heisenberg wants me to find.

But it's hard to tell what it actually is that he wants me to find. Something that must have to do with him. But, why? I look around, but I know that no one ever keeps anything of importance on the entrance level of a , as this is just inside the entrance, I realize I must travel to the bowels of the boat to find anything of use, so I waste no time locating the stairs that lead down to the second level.

It's dark on the second level, so I blindly grope to the side, my gloved hand hitting bare wall until I manage to find a light switch on my eighth tap of the wall. The world illuminates around me and I find myself in a not-too-long corridor. Still stylishly decorated with mahogany wood paneling on the sides and flooring that looks quite a bit like granite-tiling reflecting my image back at me from below.

Stalking past the first room, I find a neat little entertainment room set with one of those fancy new flat-screen televisions that everyone wants to get, a pool table, and what appears to be a minibar against the far wall of the room.

The second room is laden with gym equipment, which was more likely intended for Mrs., rather than Mr., Watts. Finally, I turn towards the room at the end of the hallway, with its sliding door closed, but given the knowledge I have about yachts, that is likely a bedroom.

And I give myself a congratulatory pat on the back when I discover that it _is_ a bedroom.

Bedrooms are nice. They give people a false sense of security. It's as if they think that just because it is where you lay your head at night, it can house all your very deepest secrets. But there are no secrets in life; you just have to find the fine film they've covered it with, and it's just as transparent as any commonly known truth.

So, I scour through the bedroom. This must be where he wanted me to come search. I search through his desk, which houses a very new computer; scour through his various other tables and drawers; finally, I come to the bed. Looking underneath, I find various books that he Watts must have been reading, the largest of which being '_Wealth of the Nations_' by Adam Smith. Still nothing. I stand up, looking at the bed, before I pull the mattress up off the bedpost, and underneath, I strike gold.

Pictures. Strewn all over the underside of the mattress as if someone had scattered them there in a rush. Pictures of men and boys, pictures of Reiker, Watts... who knew? Upstanding businessman and a babyrapist. Maybe I should have saved Reiker for myself, rather than let Doakes chomp him up. But, then, I find something that interests me greatly, simply because there is a third man in these photos. One that looks a lot like a man whose blood I smeared on a slide.

One that looks very much like Father Michael Donovan.

Now, I'm a firm believer in coincidence, in fact, the world only makes sense to me when all the things in it are coincidental, but this is just a little too eerie. Even for me. There is a nervous flapping of wings and that feeling of being watched returns.

Mike Donovan disappears, Watts is killed, Reiker awaiting trial. What was the reason behind that? How did they meet? Questions fly through my head, but I receive no answers from the pictures, just more curious positions and a fourth person that I can't recognize. A fourth? What is this, a rape-crew?

This one is wearing a fairly expensive watch and a well-made suit, but I cannot quite make out the face. I think this one will be next, so long as no one finds the pictures. I don't have anything to carry them in today, so I will have to make a return trip sometime to collect them, but this man, whoever he is, is next.

I rummage around the pictures once more and find something that chills my bones. There is one picture among the tens of child pornography that is simultaneously the most scary of all of them and the most innocent. This not a picture of a boy being raped. This is a picture of a fully-clothed, very happy girl sitting atop a man's shoulders. The man is above-average in height, with reddish-brown hair, a few days worth of beard on his face, wearing an black military jacket and carrying an AK over his shoulder. They stand in the middle of a poorly built village, but the man and the girl beam as if they live in mansions.

The girl, with her beautiful head of black hair and her Roman nose, who would have no doubt grown to be a beautiful young woman, is Liza. The man in the black jacket is a younger me. The dating of the photograph says this was taken October twelfth, 1994. I was nineteen then, just a boy.

How could anyone have gotten this photograph?

I turn it over and see a large smiley face drawn over the 'Kodak' stylizing on the back of the picture. _This_ is what he wanted me to find. This is what Heisenberg wanted. But, why? How does he know about this?

I suddenly feel very nauseated and hurry to put the mattress back atop the bed.

It doesn't take me long to put everything back in its right place, take the photo of Liza and myself, and exit the yacht while the nausea builds up and I feel myself quite likely to vomit. Fortunately, I am able to purge myself in the ocean water off the side of the docks. It's raining even harder now than it did when I entered the boat, and I let the water wash over me and just rest by the water's edge for a moment, until the Passenger warns me that someone is coming up behind me:

"It is a tragic disease," a familiar, cultured, Cuban voice registers in my ears, I turn to find Carlos Guerrero limping towards me with a cane, "No, please, you should be resting. Cancer is no easy illness to get over."

"How did you-" but then I realize how stupid it is to ask a drug lord how he gets information. The elder man just smiles as two guards walk behind Guerrero, sheltering him with an umbrella. Both of them are armed.

"They call you a genius," The cripple says.

I shrug. "They are not reliable people," I reply.

The elder man chuckles and stares at my prone form for a moment with something akin to pity: "We're both prisoners of circumstance, aren't we?" He asks. I chuckle myself and nod slightly. "But you can get things done; I've heard about the Homicide genius hiding within Miami Metro. Willing to use anyone, do anything, so long as he gets the job done."

"Bad habit, I know," I say in charming manner.

Guerrero blinks. He apparently had not expected me to have a sense of humor. "No," he replies, "not a bad habit. It's completely understandable, actually. You are a genius, normal people are not held to the standards you are. In the same way, this Heisenberg character of yours is a genius as well. And do you want to know something about them?" He waits expectantly, as if waiting for me to answer. When I nod, he continues: "There is no sense in feeling bad about using others; in a game between geniuses, the mediocre are merely playthings."

"The mediocre?"

He nods to me, extending out his hand and a piece of paper. "You and I may not have been on the same side before, but the attack has... put things into perspective," Guerrero says, "Contact me if you ever need any help tracking down this _hijo de puta_."

I nod dumbly and take the business card as Guerrero speaks again:

"I do hope you feel better," he says in a sincere, fatherly way before he turns around and hobbles away back towards the BMW M3 I saw parked in the lot earlier. It isn't long before I've decided that I've been rained on enough and head back to the borrowed Trans-Am.

When I return to the precinct and give the rental back to da Silva, I find that Debra and Harry have been searching for me from Batista and they want me in his office. Naturally, that fills me with some trepidation. Both Morgans wanting to talk to me never means anything good. Fortunately, by assuming the worst, I never find myself disappointed. Harry reveals that he wants me to watch LaGuerta interrogate Perry because she claims that I knew that Perry was a faker.

On the other hand, however, Debs is not quite as overjoyed as her father is, and that is saying a lot, considering that Harry looks about ready to commit ritual suicide over not being able to catch the Slasher. Debra's betrayed look is quite obvious as I realize that by telling LaGuerta that Perry's a fake, I have chosen her arch-nemesis over her. I send an apologetic look her way and whisper that 'can we talk?' whilst Harry is on the phone, and my new 'girlfriend' sends me a raised eyebrow, as if her interest is piqued. Apparently she must like being the center of my attention.

Which is how I find myself pressed up against her in the men's bathroom, idly wondering if Harry might walk in while his daughter is practically raping me in the stall. Somehow I predict his reaction wouldn't be pleasant. Debra's emotions are easy to read, and sex happens to be one of the many ways she vents frustration and anger. If she were to combine that with her penchant for vicious arm-punches, and I could sue if I really wanted to.

Luckily for me and stall number three on the third floor men's bathroom, it doesn't come to that. Debs simply mutters that she's still angry at me when we're half-way into pulling her shirt off and says that we'll finish this _later_.

_Later_. That is a word that is starting to strike me as being overused over the past few months.

We'll catch the Tamiami Slasher... later.

We'll catch Heisenberg... later.

I'll find whomever it was in that photo... _later_.

I'm starting to get rather sick of that word.

And suddenly, Debs is gone, and I am alone in the lonely bathroom, before I feel another wave of nausea hit me. I turn around and practically run to the toilet and purge what appears to only be blood at this point, but I know there are chemicals in there somewhere.

* * *

><p>The rest of the day was not good, and now that I head to bed, I am forced to dwell on that not good rest of the day: I got to see LaGuerta intimidate Perry with a with a head that apparently belonged to his mother, which Debra had said they recovered in a cooler at his apartment a few days ago. Debs also recounts a story of how she has been visitingI tuned it all out and played the part of the man in the box, completely disinterested at that point.<p>

My mind was much more preoccupied with Heisenberg.

How could he have that picture of Liza? The little girl with the beautiful black hair, who could play soccer like Pele; Dexter's surrogate little child... how? No one knew about her. No one at all. Back to the present, I stare at the picture of her and I for a long while before turning off the lights and pulling the covers over, still as befuddled as before:

Coming into work the next day is no better. Having been unceremoniously awoken by Debra, who had jogged all the way to my home at 6:15, I rushed into the shower and was forced to get ready to get to work at seven for some ungodly reason unbeknownst to me. By breaking every speed limit known to man, we arrived at 6:50. Now, at 7:01, I find Detective Coulter, the Sergeant of the second Homicide Unit that is working a slew of cases alongside Narcotics that seem to tie in a new drug gang in the game. Coulter is a fat, sweaty man with beady eyes and a sunny disposition that fiercely contrasts with his drab and dreary outward appearance.

"Shit, Moser," he says, eyes appraising the line of red names on the board, taking a particularly long, astounded look as Gwen, Homicide's personal undersecretary, pens in _Jane Doe #7_, "You guys really got shit on, didn't you."

"My guy's taken down five," I reply, "Harry's put practically everyone else in LaGuerta's Unit on the Slasher. I wouldn't be surprised if he lifted off some of your guys as well."

That seems to deflate the fat man, which is an incredibly funny notion to think of, but I refrain from laughing aloud and simply continue on my merry way to my little desk when a little buzzing noise comes from my pocket.

I have come to notice I am very rarely texted, so it is with a sense of exultant joy mingled with trepidation that I open my phone to see Heisenberg's message:

_The game is afoot._

I admit to being slightly confused, but there is another text that must be forthcoming. My concentration is broken as LaGuerta addresses me:

"Have you seen James around anywhere?" She asks. At first, I give her a questioning look, wondering who this 'James' character is, until I realize that she means Doakes. I shrug, "It's just that-" she starts, "-he seems to be disappearing a lot lately."

To follow dashing Dexter, no doubt.

"He's got his own life," I respond primly, to which the Sergeant gives me an incredulous grin:

"James? James _Doakes_? A life?" She full-blown laughs at that, snorting a little bit, "You're funny, Dexter; you know that? Really funny!"

And with that, she walks away, leaving me alone to judge for myself whether she is, in fact, certifiably insane.

The next thirty minutes runs with some semblance of normalcy, even as I expect another text from Heisenberg, but I do not get one. But things do flow smoothly, and it is a Miami rule that when things flow smoothly for fifteen minutes, you should expect three hours of disasters afterward.

And, of course, that is exactly what I get.

Like clockwork, after the my thirty minutes of grace, LaGuerta re-enters my office. This time, however, she has worry lines etched into her forehead rather than a grin, as if some terrible fate is to overtake her soon, and she is dreading its coming. Somehow, it enhances her aristocratic features and she barely speaks above a whisper:

"Lieutenant Morgan would like to see you, Dexter."

Of course, being a creature of tradition and habit, the change in LaGuerta's voice does not go unnoticed. "What's wrong?" I ask her.

"Just... come on," she replies. I comply, feeling slightly uneasy. Could this have something to do with Heisenberg's message?

And, naturally, it does.

I walk into Harry's office and find it occupied by the Captain, LaGuerta, and Coulter, all of whom look very troubled. I do not like being the one man left in the dark when everybody else knows the truth, even if it is a disturbing truth, which it no doubt is:

"Lieutenant?" I ask, choosing to use Harry's title respectfully, considering the company I am in. "What's going on?"

"Yesterday, you saw that Mayor Gibson visited us," Harry replies after a lengthy pause.

I nod.

"He went on a routine patrol check with two officers from Coulter's crew last night, Daniels and Frings," the elder man continues, "along with two of his own personal guards."

There's a catch, there must be.

"Both Officers and the Mayor's bodyguards were found dead this morning in the Design District," Harry continues. I suppose I should show some emotion, considering that Daniels and Frings were two Officers who spoke to me quite frequently, but I think I could be excused for not shedding my tears at the sheer shock of the statement.

"And the mayor?" I ask.

Harry sighs. "In the wind," he replies.

"So, how many perps are we looking at," I ask after a long time of pretending to look pained; Harry doesn't seem to fall for it, but the rest of the group take the bait like it's candy, "two? Three?"

"One," Harry replies, and that boggles the mind. One man took out four armed men, two officers and two personal bodyguards, and then afterwards managed to take the Mayor hostage, despite that the man did not look like a slouch from what I saw of him yesterday?

"Same 12-Gauge from the same shotgun. We haven't been able to match it to any sort of shotgun, yet."

And then, something occurs to me that I hadn't asked before:

"Wait," I begin, "Why are you calling me onto this? I can understand the Captain and the Sergeants, and maybe we'd even get the Major down here, but why me? I'm just a Detective. And, not to sound disrespectful to Daniels or Frings, but I've got enough cases of my own to work."

"But that's the thing," Matthews says before Harry can speak, "your guy, this Heisenberg, took credit for it."

"How?" I question.

Harry points down to what looks like a newspaper clipping on his desk, and I come over to read it. The date reads April 26th, which is tomorrow's date. The headline is no less frightening:

MAYOR GIBSON ASSASSINATED

And as a sort of playful postscript, he added:

Miami Metro Duped Again  
>By: Heisenberg<p>

I am sure the article underneath is riveting, and I almost want to see my new friend's ability with grammar, but Harry snatches the clipping away and looks at me expectantly: "Can you see now why I need you?"

"Well, in a way, yes."

"Read the last two lines," Harry says, holding the article under my nose. I skim the entire article and finally settle my eyes on the last two lines to read: _Dexter. You left me alone. I will eat you alive._

I snort, "Maybe I should've called him 'Hannibal' instead," I reply. LaGuerta and Coulter share soft chuckles, but neither Harry nor Matthews seem too amused.

"This is dangerous, Dex," Harry replies.

"Well then," I say, feeling inappropriately giddy that the hunt is once again, on, "we'll have to stop it before it gets deadly."

Harry sighs and does something that seems very close to rolling his eyes at me, which seems so very un-Harry-like. But, he allows me to take point on this little case from hell, and asks me what it is we should do next, to which I reply that all I need is to get down to the crime scene, but LaGuerta and Coulter insist on telling their subordinates about the new turn the Heisenberg case has taken, and I begrudgingly let them waste my time if nothing else but to appear normal.

Harry and Matthews decide they should come outside: Harry, likely to be with his subordinates, and the Captain, no doubt to rally the troops with some rousing speech that could cause children to crusade.

And a rousing speech he gives. I am nearly moved to tears, considering that Matthews probably didn't know who Daniels or Frings half-an-hour ago. Afterwards, Debra sidles up to me and releases her pent-up frustration and hurt for the families of the deceased with a volley of "fuck"s, "asshole"s, and a rather interesting analogy involving a brown paper bag of dog semen. The nighttime practices of dog breeders aside, however, Debs' full-frontal assault of expletives is quietly endearing in a way that only the brunette could muster. But, I must refrain from thinking about that _warm and fuzzy_ feeling the swears give me and focus on what Heisenberg might want.

Yes; there _was_ sarcasm in that last sentence.

And, soon, with most of Coulter's remnants alongside myself and Batista, who is still technically my partner, Harry, and Debs, we find ourselves in the Design District, on Northeast 41st Street, in a vacant lot where the car rests. Immediately, I am struck with a question:

"Why were they stopped?" I ask, "In an empty lot in the middle of the night? They definitely would've known better."

Harry, however, doesn't come pre-equipped with answers, "I couldn't tell you, Dex," the elder man responds, "we ourselves won't know until we find Mayor Gibson."

_If_ we find Mayor Gibson. Something tells me Heisenberg won't make this incredibly easy. I will have to be particularly ingenious this time around. The bodies don't tell us much other than that Heisenberg didn't waste too much time with them. It is hard to identify Daniels or Frings by anything other than their badges, considering their heads are in chunks of dried, bloody pulp, strewn out across the ground. However, we can tell that they had been caught up in something they considered important, because both men left the car and were apparently gunned-down in the lost. Perhaps to help someone who appeared injured? Or to break up a fight? Either way, they definitely got all they could handle.

I didn't really like them much anyway, despite that they thought it was nice to talk to me. I do not want to be talked to unless someone has something more important than troubles with the wife to say. So, police brethren or not, I will not shed too many tears over the two, though I doubt it would be politic to say so to anyone.

It's likely Frings, in the passenger's seat, was the first to go down. When Daniels saw what was going on, he probably tried to apprehend the suspect himself, but was shot from a further distance, which explains why Daniels body was found closer to the car. The question, however, is how did Heisenberg manage to get past the two bodyguards in the back seat, who were armed as well?

All the deductive skill in the world couldn't tell me that, so I simply ignore it and take it for granted that the guards were killed by shotgun wounds.

"Looks like Frings was shot nearly at point blank range, and Daniels got it second whilst trying to apprehend him," I say, "I haven't got a clue how he could have killed both guards in the car with a shotgun."

Debra puts her head in her hands and growls: "That _ass_hole!"

Yes. That _ass_hole indeed. And now I have to find him because Matthews has seen my clearance rate and thinks I'm some sort of new-age Sherlock and if I don't catch Heisenberg, no one will, and the sky will collapse and the Mayan gods will return to judge the New World of both the living and dead.

I might have gotten a few factoids of that wrong, but you get the point.

Basically, if I don't personally bring Heisenberg into Department HQ by punch-out time today, Matthews will be forced to put _something_ on the table in response to the death of two officers, and it will likely be my career on it.

And that is something that Dex does not like. I mean, I couldn't really care less about money, but I keep this job for a very specific reason, and not being able to work inside the Department would really hinder my ability to do damage control should another Jamie Jaworski fiasco occur. But, you'd have to admit, if Matthews did take my badge for not being able to solve this one and the mayor did die on my watch, he might be doing his Department a service: who wants the wolf at the door to come into their house? Especially when the wolf dreams of eating you every hour of every day?

I turn back to Debs, and her appearance has changed. She looks at the bodies with rising horror, and gives me a far-off stare that sees through me. It's the bleakest I've ever seen the pretty woman look, mirroring only that of how her father looked when it came to his close-call with death years ago. I don't know why she looks that way, but I do not pursue a conversation, as the day is already looking rather cloudy, and my sudden bouts of feeling for Debs included, whatever she says will only hinder me at the moment.

And, to make matters worse, I get a call from Brian whilst on scene. I excuse myself and move off to the side to answer:

"Not a good time, brother," I speak into the receiver.

"So I've heard," he replies, completely without pity, "look, Cody has something called 'Dad Day' at school today. Rita won't let Paul take Cody to school and I doubt the officials would let him in anyway, so that would leave me to go with him, right?"

I say "Mmhmm," wondering where this conversation is going.

"Well, I've got a really big day today. It's a big day in the fellowship, and you're my brother..." he trails off.

Now I know which way this is going, and I do not like it. "Brian," I say, before he can even get his hopes up, "Think of how big your day is, and then multiply that by twenty. That's how big my day is."

"Why?" He asks, "What's going on?"

"Read the newspaper tomorrow," I say cryptically, before feeling my loyalty to my brother override my need to get Heisenberg, so I neither give him a promise nor a negative, "I'll see what I can do, but I can't make any promises, Brian."

"Great!" He responds happily, "If you do come, Rita'll be there, too. It's at twelve, so you can do it while on your lunch break."

I grunt something and end the conversation, grumbling slightly to myself. Why is Dexter suddenly the most dependable man in the world? I abandoned my family for _six_ years; I would've thought that would make them a little less trusting of me. Debs asks what the call was about, and I tell her about Cody's 'Dad Day'. The brunette grins a crooked grin and mumbles something about absentee fathers that I'm sure I'd much rather not hear.

Masuka comes up to us and, for once, appears to be respectful towards the dead, expressing his deepest condolences to the families of the deceased, at which point I wonder why he's talking to us instead of the families then.

My interest fades, however, because Heisenberg left me no clues here, and in a fit of purely faked anger, I storm off to my car, which, of course, after years of misuse, refuses to turn over. I try to start it to no avail for fifteen more minutes. Meekly, I walk back to Harry, who lets me take his cruiser back to the Office, where I collapse into my chair and stare at the pictures of blood spatter on the walls behind me. I need to find Heisenberg somehow, but the great supercomputer that is Dexter's mind is drawing blank.

And, as if to punctuate my idiocy, LaGuerta asks me why I'm just staring at a wall, to which I respond with "I zoned out". Thankfully, LaGuerta sees me as a potential lay rather than a subordinate, so she is much more lenient than, say, Harry would be in the same situation, and she tells me that it must be hard, but we _have _to find the mayor.

Believe me, I am trying as best I can.

And, suddenly, as if being reminded of how utterly idiotic I sometimes can be suddenly brought my head out of the gutter, an idea sneaks into my head. He saw me at the Port of Miami. Now, either he's been stalking me, or he had already been there. For what, reason, I don't know... I know it sounds like I'm grasping at straws, but I've got no other option here, so I have to grasp at every straw I can until I find something valuable.

So, then, it's settled. I'll have to go to the Port of Miami, see if I can grab anything at all, maybe talk to that C.I. of Quinn's-

"Have you found anything yet, Detective?" Matthews asks as I scour my brain for ideas.

I pretend to look a bit frazzled, "Nothing yet, sir. He must have left some clue as to what he's doing, whether deliberate or not, I just can't _find __it. _I need to see if I can get in contact with some old C.I.s that were in and around the mob game. They might know something about Heisenberg's current whereabouts."

"Alright. Hurry, though, all we know is that if we don't get the Mayor in the next few hours, he's as good as dead."

"I'll be out for a couple of hours, don't expect me back unless I find him or get a call that..." I trail off in an 'uncertain' manner and Matthews falls for the bait, patting my shoulder:

"You're a good kid, Dexter," he says, "A born Detective. Don't get too worried, you saved Mr. Lebedev and his family, if you can get the Mayor out of this is well, bright things will be coming at you."

I nod and smile. I certainly hope they don't. I'm happy right where I am.

But I manage to slip away with that simpering smile on my face and pass by Doakes, who has finally decided to show up, and sends me an accusatory glare:

"Where were you yesterday, Moser?" He asks, still trying to burn me with his eyes.

"What?" I ask, pretending to be confused, but Doakes just stares at me and puts on a menacing sort of smile, so I just walk away after ten seconds of waiting for an answer. I head out to the car pool to find da Silva sitting behind the desk:

"You want me to give you a car for a couple of days?" He asks.

I nod. "Until I can find out if my car can be fixed or not," I reply. The young man has me sign a form and lets me take a Black Mercedes-Benz SL-65, stating that it was some nice version of the car that came from Mercedes high-end tuning company that they picked up in a chop-shop. No tags, no owner, nothing. It's practically a free car, so long as I could drive manual transmission (a skill I picked up in Russia), and I could buy it off auction in a few weeks for a fraction of the original price.

It's all stuff I don't listen to; I'm much more of a boat man anyways.

But, it doesn't change the fact that all the power is nice to have, even for a 'boat man'. And once again, no one notices me leaving, except, of course, for Debs, whom I nearly run over whilst getting used to the shininess of the new car I am in. She apparently just returned from the Daniels/Frings crime scene and seems peeved, going so far as to fling a very unsavory finger in my direction until she realizes that it is Darling Dexter behind the wheel of the behemoth that nearly flattened her:

"Jesus, Dex!" She exclaims, stomping over to the driver's window, "Would you fucking watch where you're going?"

"Sorry, Debs," I reply, "Just not used to driving manual again."

The brunette snorts, looking at the car, "Yeah, nice ride. How did you manage to get this?"

"Car Pool picked it up during a chop-shop raid," I reply.

"Where are you heading?" Debs asks, her hands discreetly resting on my left forearm.

"To Cody's school up in Golden Lakes," I say, "Brian can't be there so it looks like I have to go. Then I'm probably gonna go see if I can fish out any contacts I have that are in the game for any news on where Heisenberg might have been over the past few days."

"You want some company?" The brunette asks, "Two heads are better than one?"

"I don't know, Debs," I reply, "My C.I.s barely like me, let alone another cop."

That, and I don't need more questions on why I would choose the Port of Miami to check, but Debs will have none of that:

"Fine, I'll come with you to Cody's school, and we can grab some lunch," she says, and upon seeing my apprehensive face, she gives me a desperate, pleading look, "look, Dex. I need someone to talk to. You can drop me back off here before you go talk to your contacts."

Fine. Since Dexter has to be in such a giving mood today: For the Mayor, For Brian and Cody... why not add Debra as well?

"Okay," I relent, smiling at her in what I hope is a reassuring way, "Get in."

The Officer positively beams at that and practically skips to the other side of the car and seats herself in the passenger's seat and we drive off. A few minutes later and Debs and I are staring at Biscayne Bay as we pass it by, and finally, the brunette speaks:

"You know," she says, staring out the window, "When you went out for lunch yesterday, Matthews wanted to put me on the crew that was supposed to shuttle the Mayor around. But Dad wouldn't let me. He said I was too green for that."

I sense she's not done, despite that she trails off. But, I am proven right when Debs picks right back up where she left off:

"I was _so_ angry at him. So angry at him. I mean, I hate politicians, but this was a good thing for my career," she turns around and looks me in the eye, "You're nothing like him, you know that?" I'm not entirely sure what Debs means by that, but I nod and let her continue, "You're always there to help me when I need it. And when I heard you were talking to LaGuerta, I don't know if it was because I was already pissed off at my dad, but then I just wanted to let you know..."

Her thoughts are starting to get jumbled, so I pace her with a: "Breathe, Debs."

"And when I saw the bodies this morning. I thought... 'what if that was me'? And I wondered if Dad made the right choice, that maybe I'm not ready."

"Calm down," I tell her whilst upshifting, "You're a good cop. And you'll know when you're ready. Harry made a choice, but that doesn't make it right or wrong, and he still loves you. Just remember, Debs: Your father is a natural cop; you're natural police, too."

The brunette looks at me for a long moment as we come to a red light, before placing her left hand over my right, she leans over and kisses my cheek, "Thank you, Dexter," she breathes into my ear and then leans back into her seat.

There is a stillness in the car that results afterwards. I can feel her eyes on me as well as her hot breath from mere moments ago. It makes me feel like a little child, but Debra's gaze is one of wonderment, or something in between that and contentedness:

"I'm glad you came back," she says, moving her hand up my arm to my shoulder, deliberately referencing a time right after I had returned four years ago, when Debs said she was sorry I came back from wherever it is I went.

I smile hollowly, "I'm glad, too."

* * *

><p>"My name is Dexter Moser," I start, "I'm Cody's unc-"<p>

"Do you have a badge?" One of the kids asks excitedly. "What about a gun?"

The teacher gives the loud child a severe look: "Joey!" She exclaims. The kid shuts up. "Continue, Mr. Moser," the elder woman says.

I nod; I'm sure this will be great fun.

* * *

><p>Thankfully, I got out of that with little trouble. A ten minute presentation of what Cody's Uncle Dexter does as a Detective (I neglected to mention that I am a Homicide Detective; I don't know if that would be appropriate to tell four year-olds), a conversation with Rita and Debs, where the former gushed about how nice it was for me to come down to Golden Lakes Elementary School to speak to her son's class. She proceeded, then, to apologize for Brian and start fumbling over her own words until I stopped her from inserting her foot into her mouth.<p>

Debs and I left, and apparently, she got a call from Harry saying that the FBI was getting involved now that Matthews had reported this all the way up the chain of command, which means I have two hours before I'm sidelined from this case, which is when the FBI reaches Miami.

I am not doing this as Police, however. Heisenberg may prove to be too dangerous if he has evidence of my time in Bosnia, so if worse comes to worse, I will kill him and let the FBI waste time trying to find him. At that point, it's not the Police Department's problem anymore.

I returned home, gathered my USP and Ruger 22/45, hid them in holsters within my jacket. Fortunately, the cold spell hasn't quite passed, so the jacket can still be used without drawing suspicion. I find myself back at the Port of Miami, back at Angel's city of boxes.

I spent precious minutes figuring out how to get into the port without drawing suspicion. No doubt I have no reason to return to the Port because the bodies were all removed from the shipping container they were in, and the Port guys don't even like us horning in on their business to begin with.

So, that brings trouble. How do I manage to get around the guys watching the port? I have to come up with an answer quickly, before a worker sees an open-mouthed man with a Mercedes staring at the stacks of shipping containers and decides to ask why the man looks so fascinated by a couple of boxes.

But, this has to be the place, right? I could either try to find a way into a Port that advocated bodily harm followed by fines for trespassers, or admit that a series of texts is not enough even for the Passenger to be satisfied with this little children's crusade into one of Miami's few well-kept places.

So I move to the fence with a sort of idiot's determination to just pole vault over the barbed wire, but there is no chance of that happening, so what do I do? What do I do indeed? As if I weren't already thrice-cursed, it begins raining again.

"Sir, what are you doing over here?" A voice comes from behind, and I turn to see a union worker staring at me expectantly.

"I... uh..." is all my normally sharp brain can think of at the moment. The man in his bright orange jacket gives me quite the look of disdain once he realizes I am not here to simply enjoy the scenery.

But, cue the hallelujah chorus as a Port Police Miami Metro Cruiser pulls up to reveal the Port Police Officer I had met yesterday, Officer Anthony Moss:

"Detective?" He asks whilst rolling down the window, "Hey, Michael, back off him, would you?" since my name _clearly_ isn't Michael, he must be talking to the Union Guy in his high-visibility jacket, "He's with me."

"Oh, is he?" Michael questions, "Alright, in you go."

He lets me through and Moss opens the Passenger door for me, letting me in, and drives almost immediately after I shut the door. "And what the hell are you doing here again, Detective Moser?"

"A hunch on a case," I reply, "I need to get to the shipping container where we found the bodies."

"That's been moved," The Officer replies.

Shit. "Do you know where it was?"

"Sure do. Been roaming around these parts over a decade. Why do you need to go there?"

"Sorry," I reply, "Need-to-know basis."

Moss gives me a narrow look, but complies nonetheless and drives me to the area where the shipping container was:

"Are there any high places nearby here where someone could have seen all the bodies yesterday?" I question the Port Officer who nods:

"Sure," he replies, you'd be hard-pressed to find one outside the Port, though. The only way to even get a good look at the place is from either the MacArthur Causeway or the old Printworks back on the mainland."

"The Printworks?" I ask, suddenly very interested.

"Yeah, but you'd need goddamn binoculars to see this part of the Port from there."

Or a sniper rifle. Which Heisenberg has shown he can use. Dexter believes in coincidences, but for a Printworks to be so close to the Port, and with him having sent a manufactured _newspaper_ article to Miami Metro? That is a coincidence even Dex refuses to believe.

And so, I step out of the car into the pouring rain, asking Moss where the Printworks would be from here; the elder man points to a big building in the distance, nearly a mile away. I take out my service pistol and start aiming:

"What are you doing, fool?" The man asks, completely shocked by my behavior.

"Shush," I try to quiet him with as stern a voice as I can, "You're talking. I don't like you talking. I need it to be quiet."

The man, whose interest has obviously been piqued, decides to give me that quiet and look back and forth for any Port Workers in silent dread, head bobbing and waving forwards and backwards at a frenetic pace whilst I take aim at the distant building and try to make an estimate.

I have a good eye for long-distance shots, but even in the rain it is a difficult tell. I can see a fire escape; there may or may not be a window to look out of, but I'll need to check it myself. I head back to the Passenger's seat of the car.

"Nothing," I sigh.

"What were you looking for?" He asks.

"Something that made sense."

And that's all Moss needs before he drives me back to the lot outside the port.

* * *

><p>That is how I ended up here, in front of the Printworks, crumbling bricks and broken windows all over the dilapidated building. Hardly the hiding place of a super-criminal, but I've certainly seen stranger. I parked the Mercedes two blocks away to keep Heisenberg from getting too suspicious, and thankfully, the rain provides low visibility and ability to stalk during the day, and I am a prepared monster, the heaviness of the two guns within coat, a third at the hip, and the lock picks in my hands, brings a familiar sort of feeling, like I am on the battlefield again. And that's what makes it all so terribly exciting; I match up against Heisenberg and suddenly I am back fighting in Bosnia, in Russia, all over the world, and that fills me with a euphoric feeling that is very hard to fight down.<p>

But, I am nothing if not patient and willing to endure, so I fight the urge to go in with guns a-blazing and insert the lock pick into the key hole. After a moment, the lock gives way and a soft 'click' lets me know the door has been unlocked.

I walk into a cramped and darkened lobby with a peeling wallpaper with 'The Miami Herald' emblazoned on it. This was a little Branch of the Herald back before I was even born, probably, and was closed down around the time I was making my first babbling noises to my mother.

The equipment is mostly old typewriters that likely broke down during the last frantic days of this particular building of the Herald, strewn across the floor alongside old newspapers and years worth of accumulated dust.

I immediately unholster the Ruger 22/45, made specifically with a built in suppressor, fiber-optic sights, and tactical lights by some of the more unsavory 'blacksmiths' in China. In most cases, the gun is impractical because of all the accessories on it, but in this particular case, it is a light gun that is incredibly quiet, light, and useful.

The lobby is dead silent, and I allow myself to fade into the shadows before making my way up to the stairs, crouching in the darkness, listening for any sound that is not the fierce thunderstorm outside.

I make a stop on the second floor, which appears to be more of a typists room, what with desks and typewriters and bits and pieces of newspaper scrap laying around. It is even darker on this floor, and I am starting to have trouble seeing, but it appears there is no one here either and I begin to wonder if there is anyone or anything here at all.

Until, of course, I hear _it_.

_It_ is the sound of _someone_ being hit, and the sound of _someone's_ breath literally being taken away. And suddenly, my faith in my, admittedly shoddy, detective work is restored. I crouch lower to blend in with the shadows and take up less space as I move up the stairs two at a time. Finally, I come to the highest floor where the office of the editor likely would have been and flatten myself back-to-wall and peer through the open door way. There are two men in this room. One, who is strapped to a chair, looks to be quite unconscious, and I recognize that face from hundreds if not thousands of campaign commercials: Timothy Gibson. The Mayor.

The second is a tall man wearing a jacket and hood that is similar to mine, and with it, I cannot identify who it might be, though I have a sneaking suspicion I know who it is. But I am not given time to think about it as the man raises something that hung limply in his right hand, and I realize it is a gun that looks very similar to an M16 with a compacted barrel. He takes aim right where I am standing and immediately swivel back behind the wall as I hear and impressive bang and a shattering of wood and dry wall around me.

I assess the damage and realize that I am dealing with a shotgun based off the M16 platform, rather than an Assault Rifle itself. Suddenly, I don't feel so safe carrying the Ruger around, but creep closer the doorframe and take aim while trying to stay out of sight, managing to fire and catch the man, who I can only assume is Heisenberg, in the shoulder.

However, the man only seems to be slightly fazed by it, and turns to the unconscious mayor and speaks:

"He won't feel a thing," he steps back and takes aim at the mayor's prone back, and I am frozen into immobility. I have heard that voice before. But where? I can't tell if his eyes are truly on me, but I know that Heisenberg is looking at me, "Which is more than I can say for the ones you take."

A second burst of shotgun spray rips through the afternoon rain, and I have no choice but to stay behind:

"Lesson, Dexter, learn it well," Heisenberg says, "next time, don't miss."

He takes aim at me, and I realize it is best for me to stay behind the wall, because even though I got a lucky shot in on the man, a Ruger is still no match for shotgun in close quarters combat situations such as this one.

But Heisenberg does not come closer, he moves back towards a window and clambers out it, presumably onto the fire escape I saw earlier. I eventually rush to the window and see him clutching his shoulder as he walks away into the rain, shotgun at his side.

I walked away from this one unscathed, and he was injured. But who knows what will happen next time?

Turning back to the Mayor, I realize there's no use in checking for a pulse. Blood everywhere, his back is torn to shreds. He's definitely dead. And that is not good for me. I won't get fired, but I am as good as off this case now. Quickly, I head back to the wall where I had been standing and search for the bullet casing from my gun somewhere on the ground. I eventually find it by a stack of wooden shrapnel strewn on the stair landing. I refrain from going out the way I had come, and instead take the Fire Escape back into the rain.

The streets are very soaked, rain floods the drainage pipes and every step I take is a wet slosh with water spraying up my pant legs and accumulating in large droplets atop my jacket, hood, and gloves. I find a pay phone a few minutes away and dial 9-1-1, putting on my very best scared hick accent:

"9-1-1, what's your problem?

"They done there that ol' Printworks by the Port," I reply, sounding very much like I live on a farm and my name is Jebediah, "Heard me some _gun_fire. Sounded like one o'them shotguns. Saw a guy leavin' there, too, somethin' about newspapers."

They then ask me if I could stay by the payphone, at which point I tell them 'Hell, nah', citing that I'm already about to stain my britches and I just wanna get the hell outta the rain and I won't be there when the rozzers come.

At which point, I hang up the phone and return to the Mercedes parked a few blocks away and head home rather quickly.

Once there, I return the guns and my gloves to their normal hiding place before I dry myself off a little bit with a towel, make a sandwich and wait for Harry to call me. That call comes exactly as I am into my fifth bite of the sandwich:

"Dexter, where are you?" Harry asks.

"Somewhere in Coconut Grove. It's a little hard to tell in all this rain." I reply, looking out the window at the hurricane-like conditions outside.

Harry grunts in acknowledgement, "Well, I need you to get to the abandoned Printworks by the Port of Miami. We found the Mayor."

I pretend to get excited for good news, "Is he ali-"

"No," Harry responds quickly. I stop for a moment and force my breath to hitch, like a real human's would, and then let out a long groan.

"Now what?"

"Now you come down here and we'll find out what to do, but the FBI takes over from here."

"Alright. I'll be there in twenty," I say, before ending the call.

A sudden rogue thought hits me as I am about to open the door. 'In a game of geniuses, the mediocre are merely playthings,' is what Guerrero said. If we are to look it at that way, both Heisenberg and I are the Kings of our little chess board. We need our pawns, our rooks, and bishops and horses. And Queens.

We need our very own Queens.

We are playing the game, and right now, we've got each other trapped in a move that harms us when I'd rather not move at all. He knows about me, so I have to hunt him down and kill him before the MMPD can find him themselves. But that also brings me the risk of being fired, the risk of being killed, and worse than all that: the risk of being caught.

So I will need to build a few bridges, make a few contacts to keep myself out of harm's way. And I know exactly who I should call first. Reaching down into the inside pocket of my jacket, next to picture of Liza and I, I pull out a small, rectangular card with a name and a number on it. In the other hand, I dial the number on the card into my phone and put it up to my ear. There is a silence for a moment, then I start hearing the ringing noise, until someone picks it up and a familiar Cuban-accented male voice answers:

"Carlos Guerrero."

"Mr. Guerrero, this is Detective Moser from Miami Metro," I reply.

"Ah, Detective! What can I do for you?"

"I could use some help," I say, stepping out from the comfort of my home and back into the cold rain.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> This was a bit of a tough chapter to write because of all the exposition, but I hope it satisfies and was worth the long wait! Thanks for reading, and drop me a few reviews while you're at it (After all, reviews are like money, the more you give me the better I feel about writing).

Hope you guys stay on for the next chapter,  
>Geist.<p> 


	11. Sounds of Thunder

**Summary: **The rain does not let up as the FBI sideline the Miami Metro Homicide Department on the Heisenberg Case. Meanwhile, Matthews tries to help Homicide save face by putting Darryl Perry on trial and shipping him off to jail.

**Down on the Upside**

* * *

><p><em>"We're like the lightning in the rain."<em>

-Heisenberg

* * *

><p><strong>'Sounds of Thunder'<strong>

* * *

><p>It's hard to say much of anything about places you just were, especially when there are simply no words to describe the situation that just occurred. I stand in front of the Printworks building, staring open-mouthed at the crumbling brick wall in attempt to mirror the sheer shock of Debs' face, who wears that terrifyingly bright highlighter jacket once more. She blinks away from her gaze due to a particularly large droplet of water splashing her face, and I snicker at the brunette's misfortune, who, being known for her disproportionate response to such situations, sends a terrific thwack at my bicep.<p>

"You prick," Debra says, smiling.

It's all we can do to keep ourselves entertained and slightly lighthearted, considering the circumstances: The Mayor of Miami was just assassinated by _one_ man with a shotgun, the FBI are about to sideline the entire department to set up their own, and there are two dead police officers who are currently having their heads reconstructed by a Mortician. One by the name of Benjamin Moser, but that is entirely irrelevant to the fantastic pile of possum crap we've gotten ourselves into.

But hey, at least we've got the Tamiami Slasher.

Except... he's not the real deal.

"Special Agent Brenda Recht," a woman in a suit and pencil skirt walks up to me and says, seemingly unfazed by the pouring rain, "This is our counter-terrorism specialist on loan from Homeland Security," she points to a rather muscular man in a rather nice suit without a tie and a shirt with two top buttons unbuttoned. The most notable thing is the rather effeminate pinkie ring he wears on his right hand, "Kyle Chutsky."

"Hey, buddy," he says jovially, clapping my back as if we are old schoolmates.

"Uh... hey, buddy," I respond. Perhaps it is the shock of actually hearing Heisenberg speak still weighing on me, but I'm feeling more inclined to say that someone, somewhere along the way of my route between the Printworks, my apartment, and the Printworks again had somehow knocked me out and juiced me up with some heroin because this I'm starting to feel like I've fallen into Wonderland.

Weren't the Homeland Security types supposed to be the type that a less principled man would call 'assholes'? Why, then, is this man treating me like we spent two days in a foxhole together during Desert Storm?

"You must be Detective Moser, right?" He asks, I nod, "You got that natural Detective look," he says, referencing the jacket and the hood, "I hear you're some sort of genius or something."

I scrunch my face in a modest manner, "People exaggerate," I reply in my natural 'good-natured Dex' voice. Chutsky smiles and nods at me:

"And you're..." He turns to Debs, who stares at him as a scientist would a particularly interesting specimen, "Officer Morgan?"

"That would be me," she responds after a long and awkward pause, before she instinctively moves a little closer to me. Apparently, I am not the only one to notice it:

"Don't worry, I won't bite," he says, and Debs just sends him an annoyed smile before the man continues speaking, "I'll need to help the FBI set up a task force from the Department to help with catching this sonuvabitch. We could really use someone like you, Officer, who's had experience with Vice."

"No," Debs responds in a curt manner, "I'm not putting on fetish gear and strutting Calle Ocho again, alright?"

"No, no, never," Chutsky says in a placating manner, "Just to help with our Vice contacts who might know a way into the mobs our 'Heisenberg' friend's been running with."

"And what about Dex?" She asks, "He's my partner."

"Transfer him to that Sergeant Coulter's group," Chutsky looks at me with what I assume is sorrow, though his scarred countenance does a very poor job at portraying it, "Sorry, buddy, but you know how it is. It's a task force, and I need men for it, not geniuses."

Well. I don't know whether to be flattered or offended.

"I'll be in touch," Chutsky says to Debs, moving away, presumably towards the inside of the building, where Forensics is searching for clues. It may or may not lead them to Heisenberg's blood, so he will likely be found out within just a few hours because of my timely shot.

But who knows? I've been wrong before.

"Man," Debs sighs, "That guy's a prick."

"Well, apparently, so am I," I reply.

"But you're a much better-looking prick," she grins and leans back against the Mercedes.

"Thanks," I reply hollowly.

That leaves a few problems, however. Without any sort of jurisdiction on Heisenberg, and with our 'games' rising, I will have no ability to pursue legal avenues to thwarting whatever he may be planning next. Furthermore, I am no longer the only one in contact with the man. If Harry remembers anything about the texts, he will have me turn over my phone to him so they can monitor for any incoming messages from my friend... and who knows what will be said?

I can't imagine.

But, on the bright side, this throws me off the radar, and I can recede back into the shadows, where I work best: establishing contacts, making friends-things Dexter does not like but must get used to.

"Damn it," I mutter, pretending to be truly dismayed at the Mayor's passing, and Debs puts a hand on my shoulder in what I assume is a soothing manner. "I'm going back to the station. Report to Coulter."

"Okay," the brunette says softly, discreetly grasping my hand, "I'll see you there, alright?"

I've never been able to accuse myself of dragging my feet, but considering my socks are now soaked from all the water seeping through my shoes, I'd have to say this is the first time I really have. For some odd reason, it feels like I lost something. A skirmish, a battle, maybe even a war, despite nothing has even happened yet. This is simply the beginning for something much larger. And that makes me feel uneasy, so I drag my feet to the the driver's side seat and head away from the crime scene.

But I do not go to the station; instead, I travel to Coconut Grove and find myself entering the outside courtyard of Carlos Guerrero's new home after going through a gratuitous number of bodyguards searching my person, who try taking my service pistol off me when Guerrero himself peers out the door and into the courtyard of his home:

"Let the Detective through," he says, waving away a rather unfriendly-looking guard from me. I give said guard a patronizing sort of smile before moving on to Guerrero, who greets me in his usual fashion, "Hello, Detective, what can I help you with?"

I rub my eyes as I walk into the foyer of his Spanish-styled home, "The FBI has come in on the Heisenberg Case; they apparently had some guy from Homeland Security come down from Washington to head up a task-force before this turns into requires an anti-terrorist team."

"So?" The man asks, limping towards a room at the far end of a long hallway which appears to be built entirely out of well-polished mahogany wood.

"That means I am off the case. The guy who's running the case now says that he 'needs men and not geniuses'. I didn't know which way to take that particular quip." I reply.

"Best not have taken it at all," Guerrero says, turning around and staring at me seriously, "Flaring tempers and lack of respect does no one good, Detective. It is a valuable lesson, one that took me far, far too long to understand."

We walk into his office, which is a very normal looking sort of office, complete with the desk, one large executive chair, and two smaller chairs on the other side of the desk which I assume I am supposed to take. Once Guerrero sets aside his cane and sits in the chair, I repeat his action and take my own seat, noticing an open bible in front of him:

"I never took you to be the religious kind," I quip lightly, unsure of what else to say right now.

He looks over the large holy book with a fond smile, "I'm not really, no. The only books of the Bible I ever found worth reading were Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. Solomon, who wrote part of Proverbs and _all_ of Ecclesiastes, was a man who knew what life was all about. And in a way, that makes him a much more admirable character than Jesus could ever claim to be." He stops and stares out the window in contemplation for a moment, perhaps waiting for me to say something.

"So, what do you need? I will try my very best to help you," Guerrero says once he realizes I won't pursue the topic any further.

"Contacts," I say.

"Contacts?" The elder man asks, as if his interest is piqued, "What sort?"

"People who know the drug game. Preferably someone who knows their way in and out of the Russian Mob so I know where Heisenberg is even before he does." I say, "And maybe a few dollars to keep the media from fussing so much about other things when the Mayor just died."

Guerrero pauses for a moment, before grabbing out a paper and piece of paper and scribbling something on it. He folds it and then hands it to me, telling me that I should get in touch with this number soon, because that man can give me all the support I need up to hiring henchmen.

"Is that all, Detective?" He asks lightly, looking back down at his Bible.

"Yes. Yes, that's all," I reply, before leaving the office and heading out the door whilst passing by the man who searched me with a sly smile and I return to the precinct, where Debs waits for me where I've been. I state that I had been getting a spot of lunch and questioning a source for what he might know about the Russian Mob and the new man that's been working for them, and his current whereabouts.

It is then that I report to the other side of the homicide department, where at least two other crews of Detectives and Officers work, which makes me idly wonder why our Unit got both the Tamiami Slasher and Heisenberg to deal with. One of the two units is led by a Sergeant Peters, whom I don't know very well, but we've had a good working relationship. The other, as already stated, is led by Sergeant Coulter, the fat man who always seems to sweating and drinking Mountain Dew, who I walk up to with a few case files in hand:

"I think Harry's kicking me down here after that guy from Homeland Security takes over the Heisenberg Case," I say, and Coulter raises an eyebrow, and presumably sets his jaw, though it is difficult to tell because said jaw is layered with extra fat and skin, making it extra hard to see:

"What'd you do?" He asks with a rather flatulent smile.

I sigh and scratch my forehead, "I dunno," I reply in a meek manner, "The guy he said he needed men not geniuses. And then he said he'd like Officer Morgan on his task force."

The elder man bursts out laughing, "Jesus, Dex, he picked Morgan's girl over you? I mean, she's a rising star, and all... but over _you_? That's like passing up Michael Jordan for Isiah Thomas-"

"-You know Isiah Thomas beat Jordan's Bulls in the playoffs three times in a row, right?" I ask.

"And then Chicago went on to win six times, your point?" He questions lightly.

"Rendered moot," I supply.

"Alright, alright; I guess most of your Unit is going to be on that Heisenberg Case," Coulter says, still laughing a little bit, "So, if they really are taking you off LaGuerta's Unit and putting you on mine, I'd be more than happy to accept you on it. I _need_ geniuses; I could care less about men. But, let's go ahead and ask Harry what he's going to do before jumping to any conclusions."

"Sounds like a plan," I reply, taking the files back to my desk on the other side of the office.

After dropping the files on my desk, I pass by my fellow Unit-members who all appear to be part of the 'task-force'. They all stand by Mr. Chutsky and Special Agent Recht, both of whom give me a severe look as if I have committed a mortal offense by passing into their line of sight. I raise my eyebrows at the barely concealed annoyance at my person being in the direct vicinity of their 'game-plan', but soon pass with a light smile, hoping that it might somehow ease tensions of which I am truly unsure how I sparked. However, the elder man's face does not change, or, at least, I can't tell much, because he's wearing his sunglasses inside the building. And Recht almost always looks pretty impassive about everything. So, rather than waste my time among the unwelcoming, I hurry into Harry's office:

"Lieutenant," I say respectfully, "Since practically everyone in my unit except Masuka and I are on the FBI Task Force, you want me to head over to Coulter's Unit and introduce myself there?"

"Wait, Chutsky doesn't want you?"

"Apparently not," I reply, "I'm fine with just that, though. I'll take a few floaters over Heisenberg any day. Maybe I can take my Sergeant's Test, as well."

Harry smirks, "Silver lining in everything, right, Dexter?" He asks. "In any case, stay out of the task-force's way. I know you're different..." he trails off and and I am suddenly struck with a little fear. He knows? Knows I'm different? What does _that_ mean?

But the Lieutenant quickly recovers, "I know you care, and that's why you want to take this guy out yourself. But we've been sidelined. Just stay calm, and help out with whatever murders we get that are non-Heisenberg-related."

"Well..." I start, "Can someone please tell me why I'm being treated like the Antichrist by the Feds?"

The elder man shrugs, staring that ice-blue stare at me. "I couldn't tell you why, I'll talk to the Major about it, but until then, just buck up and work with Coulter's guys. Take Masuka with you. Oh, and Dexter? If Debra asks you for any help, don't give it to her. The Feds are asking for one-hundred percent cooperation, and this Chutsky guy's got a system. He'll know when Deb is being fed by you."

It's a hard decision to make, considering that Debs asks me for help quite frequently, "Aye aye, LT," I reply, before leaving the room. Debs will have to rely on her own intuition: if Harry discourages helping her for the good of both his daughter and myself, I will comply. Harry knows what he is talking about.

I am sure of it.

I keep a low-profile on the way back to my desk, ignoring the severe gaze of the Feds and one James Doakes, a concerned one from Debra, and a confused one from Angel, collect my files and call out for Masuka, who is currently being invaded by multiple FBI Forensic mooks who are setting up equipment of their own:

"Vince, you're with me. Coulter's unit."

The Asian scientist nods gratefully and follows me out the door without so much as casting a backwards glance at the ill-fated 'Heisenberg Task Force'; they won't gather so much as a modicum of evidence without me, and I find that incredibly hysterical. Chutsky is so certain that he can find Heisenberg without me, and the irony is that he may not even be able to catch a whiff without me.

Is it strange that such a thought fills me with a sort of poisonous joy?

Masuka and I slink into Coulter's particular group of cubicles and desks, which has been slightly quieter without Daniels or Frings around, but I suppose I can make up their workload. I find the overlarge Sergeant and report to him:

"Lieutenant gave the go on our temporary transfer to your Unit, Sergeant," I begin respectfully.

"Stop with the Sergeant bullshit," Coulter says, "We work as a Unit here and I'm not as much a prick as LaGuerta so just call me Coulter."

"Alright, then, Coulter," I reply, using his preferred name, "What do you want me to do?"

"Seems like Miami's all murdered-out now that the Mayor's been reported dead, so no crime scenes for you. But, your new partner, for the time that Batista is on that task-force, is Deke over there," Coulter points out a sullen and unrealistically handsome young man who sits at one of the cubicles scribbling circles onto a notepad. The Sergeant's voice drops a little to a whisper, "He is the nephew of the Vice's Major, and was part of some great drug case a few years back while he was still a Narco, so he's practically untouchable. But he's stupid. Like, really, _really_ dumb."

"That's very reassuring, Coulter," I reply.

"Well, who knows? Maybe your smarts will offset his stupidity, his people skills may offset yours, and then you might equal one fully-functioning human together."

I scrunch my forehead in mock-anger, "And what's that _supposed_ to mean?"

"Whatever you'd like it to mean. Now go and mingle, I've got more important things to do than babysit you and that flat-faced fuck over there," he indicates Masuka with a fond grin.

"In some circles, that might be considered racist," I quip.

Coulter gives me a serious look, "I some circles, pointing that out might force me to give you an emergency rectal exam, you Irish prick."

A moment of tense silence ensues before he grins and skips off, which looks admirably comical considering that his fat sort of jiggles as he does it. I turn to Deke and offer a hello, to which he merely gives me a disinterested once-over and returns to his circle scribblings. Two of the other Detectives snicker at me and mouth 'Good luck' to me, and I send a rueful grin back to them and sit at the empty cubicle, going over case files.

This continues until it is time to check out, which I do very gratefully as Deke is perhaps the dumbest lump of clay that ever had the misfortune of being made into a human. He simply wore that idiot look between consternation and apathy and stared over my shoulder at the files, as if I should jump up and tell him everything there is to know about whatever murder it is that I was reviewing. Coulter was not lying when he said the man is like, really, _really_, dumb.

Fortunately, I return home without any further problems by avoiding the Heisenberg Crew altogether, but am greeted with two of my stupidly somber-faced siblings: Brian and Dee, standing outside my door. Apparently they must have heard about the Mayor's death and how that was my case:

"Sorry, Dexter," is the first thing that comes out of the sweet little blonde thing's mouth, and Brian gives me a look of sympathy and claps my shoulder hard. Probably some sort of moral support maneuver that he had been learning alongside that fellowship of his.

I snort in a sarcastic manner, "I got to save a mob boss, and let the mayor die. Funny how karma works that way."

"Any leads?" My elder brother asks, following Dee and I as we move towards my apartment door.

"I don't know," I reply, "They sent some suits and a guy from Homeland Security down to take over. I'm off the case. Probably pissed off the Major, too. Genius Dexter could save the Russian businessman, why couldn't he save the two coppers or the mayor?"

My siblings follow me to the island counter-top in front of my fridge and I pick out drinks for all of us. Since Debs insists on staying around my apartment more often, I have been forced to stock up on beer, which, no doubt, my brother would enjoy. Orange juice for Dee, her favorite. And, last, but not least; for me, water: the drink of the gods.

"So the mighty Dexter has fallen out of favor, then?" Brian asks, reinforcing that look of sympathy as he pops open the bottle of beer and takes a long swig. Dee gives him a slight swat at the arm, similar to one of Debra's arm-punches, but significantly less damaging. "What?" the eldest of us three exclaims, annoyed by our sister's flyswatting ability.

"Brian! A little tact?" She says through gritted teeth, which elicits a chuckle or two from me. A miracle, considering how humorless I feel right about now.

"What? It's not like moping's gonna get him anywhere," Brian replies.

"But still-" Dee begins, I interrupt:

"No, Brian's right," I say.

Brian smirks, "See? Dexter knows how to take things. By the way, what the hell did you do to your hair? You're pale as a corpse, and chopping off all your hair just isn't very you." I move towards the fridge, looking for any meat I might have to cook for my dear siblings, who have taken time out of their day to console distraught Dexter, and I must be a good host.

"You want chicken?" I ask.

"Yeah, sure," Brian replies, "You look like a cancer patient."

My hand freezes on the fridge door handle and I feel my entire body lock for a moment. This is obviously not a good course of action, because Brian has always been able to read most of my moves pretty well. I quickly close the fridge once the locked feeling passes and turn to Brian and Dee with the chicken breast in hand:

"Yeah, it's a new style, you know?" I reply with a purely faked grin.

Brian searches my face for a moment, my halt at the fridge must have alerted him that something was wrong, before he seems to put two and two together: "You don't...?" I remain silent and stare at him, which is evidence enough for my brother:

"Jesus Christ, Dex," he spits, "When the hell were you going to tell us?"

I smile softly as Dee looks between us with an expression of mild confusion evident in her sea-green eyes. "Preferably never," I joke.

"Not a good time to be clever, brother."

"What the hell are you two talking about?" Dee asks, totally confounded.

"What is it?" Brian asks, "What stage?"

"Would you tell me what you two are going on abou-" Dee begins as I speak:

"-Leukemia," I reply softly, Brian scrunches his face in displeasure, "Stage One."

Dee stops dead, and we all stare at each other for one, very long, very awkward moment. The youngest of us looks back and forth between Brian and I before she leans back in her chair, completely unsure of how to take this.

"How long have you known?" Brian asks, breaking the awkward silence.

"Two months now."

"Jesus..." My brother says.

"Dex," Dee says, putting an arm on my shoulder, "Why couldn't you tell us? We're your family... I know you've gone through a lot, not just today, but over the years... and I know you don't like to be babysat, but..." She trails off.

"But we're here to take care of each other," finishes Brian.

If I were a real human, I would break into tears at the beauty of family and how desperately I love having and needing one. But, thankfully, I am not a real human, so such a thought never occurs in my mind except in the merest passing fancy.

"You're not alone," Dee says, "Why go through this like you are?"

Because I am alone? Because you'll never understand me? Because I prefer to not think about miserable and impractical constructs, rather than whine and angst about it like a emotional teenage girl? See how ridiculous that sounds? I don't want to waste your time or mine when we could be solving our own problems.

Of course, I am nowhere near that brave in reality, so I refrain from saying anything at all, and instead cause myself the equivalent of optical vertigo by trying to focus my attention on both siblings, both of whom sit on on opposite ends of the countertop.

"I want to take a look at this, Dex," Brian says, "come down to Jackson Memorial in a few days, I have a friend who might be able to give a second opinion."

And that's that. No matter how I try to persuade him otherwise, Dee and Brian are dead-set on me meeting my brother's friend at Jackson Memorial, and once my mother and Ben get wind of this particular bit of news, as they no doubt will, the pressure to see him will only get stronger. So, sufficiently cowed, I agree to my bully of a brother's terms, and continue throughout the night talking about Cancer, which I certainly don't want to, until both my lovely siblings leave me in peace.

And I go to bed feeling practically defeated.

* * *

><p>Woken in the middle of the night, I find my phone ringing. It is not any number I recognize, but I pick it up anyways, considering I am up and may be able to yell at whoever called me at this ungodly hour:<p>

"What?" I yell into the receiver.

"My, my, that's no way to treat a fellow traveler," a voice I instantly recognize from the Printworks yesterday, Heisenberg, says, "Especially when he's the only other one in the world like you. Wotcher, Dexter."

English slang? But he has an American accent. I recognize the voice from somewhere, but I simply can't tell where, so I remain silent and let Heisenberg continue:

"I heard they took you off the case," he says.

"And how would you know that?" I question.

"Well connected, I guess," he replies, and I have the vaguest feeling that the killer shrugged his shoulders whilst saying that.

I rub my eyes, "Well, your connections are right. I'm off the case. No fun for you."

"Ah, but we both know that's wrong, Dexter," Heisenberg says, no doubt with a smirk playing on his lips, "You're just going to hunt me down with or without the police's help. It's why I like you so much; I admire your tenacity. And it's why you like me; you admire lack of restraint. am I right?"

"You would be correct, in some ways," I say hastily.

"We're like the lightning in the rain. We're each other's _raison d'etre_." He replies.

"Probably," I affirm.

"Well," he begins awkwardly, as if expecting me to have been more open to conversation, "if they're going to be fools and put the idiots in charge of this case, the mediocre," the voice on the other line begins, "then I will make them the fool until they realize they need you. Cheerio, dear friend, and sorry for the terrible mess I'm about to make."

The line goes dead. I should probably get up and find out what's going on, and I should probably-oh, _fuck_ it. I haven't got a single clue to go off of and what can I do, make a citizen's arrest? I've got no way to get near this guy.

I'm going back to sleep.

And of course, in another hour, I am awoken by yet another call. This time, it's dispatch, giving me an address somewhere in Liberty City. I look outside and see that the rain has taken a turn for the worst as I sigh and get ready to go out. When I get to the crime scene, still yawning and rubbing my sleep-deprived eyes, Deke, my new partner, with the intelligence of a rock, stares at me, nonplussed:

"Long night?" He asks simply; I nod:

"The longest. And probably going to get even longer now. What've we got?"

"An interesting one," Masuka says, walking from where I presume the crime scene is, "Guy performed a double tap on one victim. The other looks like he took a shotgun blast to the back. Problem was, the vics were cops."

"Cops?" I ask. Again? More cops? Was this what Heisenberg meant by his 'mess'?

"Yeah," The scientist replies, "I don't think you'll be able to get much out of it, either. Seems like this guy is Heisenberg, and even if it isn't, the FBI is eating up any murder that even looks similar to the bastard's kills."

"You don't think this is Heisenberg?" I ask.

"Oh, no, I definitely think it's him," Masuka replies, "But they're really unorganized. One day and the case already seems to have been more under control when you were leading it."

Well, that was mainly because his fascination with me kept him restrained, trying to impress. Without me to see his body of art, Heisenberg's going to lash out until I can get back on the case or start really chasing him down on my own.

"Well, I'd better get a look at the body before Chutsky and his crew get down here, then," I tell the short man, who nods:

"Alright, Coulter's over there looking at the body. The Feds are gonna be coming any minute, and I've been hearing some things about you, so lay it low."

"Some things about me?" I question, "What things?"

"Oh, you know, the crazy things Doakes usually likes to say about you: how you're a weirdo, and a psycho, the whole nine yards. See this, though, apparently Special Agent Recht is a _friend_ of Doakes-I know, he has a friend, right? Fucking weird, I tell you-and Chutsky is apparently an old military buddy. No one knows what level, but it had something to do with Spec Ops. The thing is, they're listening to Doakes. If they believe him, they might have it out for you."

Well, just another thing to add to the ever-growing list of 'Dexter's Worries'.

I jog rather briskly to the yellow ticker tape that surrounds the corner the two beat cops were shot dead upon and hunch myself over so I can keep the rain from splashing all over me. I do not do a very good job of it, as my hood ends up soaked and my face feels like I was slapped by Aquaman anyways. I finally make my way to Coulter, who wears one of those hideous high-visibility jackets that Debs, due to the rain, now wears almost religiously whenever she goes outside, albeit the Sergeant's is certainly a plus size:

"What have we got, Coulter?" I ask, remembering to use his name rather than his title.

"Not much to go off of, the victim pretended to have been stabbed, was found lying on the ground in blood. He hid the shotgun behind this pair of trashbags," Coulter indicates a recently disturbed garbage heap, "We found a few shotgun shells over there to prove it, the same ones that ripped into Office Marquez over here. Winchester, on the other hand, was the first to go down, taken down by a double tap from a nine-millimeter."

I look down at the bodies, immediately struck with a bit of disappointment: "You're familiar with Occam's Razor, right, Coulter?"

The large Sergeant nods. "I've heard of it; whatever brand of logic offers the least amount of assumptions is usually the simplest, and correct, way to diagnose a problem, or an effect."

"Exactly. We're looking at a double-tap, which we saw with the Mozambique Drill Heisenberg pulled on that drug runner, and a shotgun blast: how Daniels, Frings, and the Mayor died. Simplest solution, the one that requires the smallest leap of logic, is that Heisenberg did this, and the Task Force'll have a field day with it." I reply, standing and moving away from the crime scene as the rain spatters my face.

"Where're you going?" Coulter calls out.

I turn around and give the man a tired but impish smile. "Going to go back to sleep."

Which is exactly what I do. I won't be able to leave the crime scene as a matter or protocol, so I just sit in the rented Mercedes and drift off into a dreamless sleep quite easily. I am awoken nearly forty-five minutes later when Debra taps on my window. I jerk awake to see the woman grin at my annoyance:

"What?" I ask irritably, lowering the windows.

Debra points towards the crime scene. "Looks like Chutsky wants some of that magic 'genius' of yours to help us out with the crime scene."

"Really?" I ask. "It was pretty obvious. Even Coulter was able to figure out before I came by. It doesn't require genius, just a small brain."

"Oh, yeah?" The brunette asks, wrinkling her nose as a droplet of rain splashes upon it, "And what's that that's 'pretty obvious'?"

"It was Heisenberg. Now let me go to sleep," I reply, starting to raise up the windows when Debs gives me one of those Harry-glares she's been getting so good at lately and I am forced to comply, as it always means pain for me.

"Come on," she says as I let out a very audible groan; I am very at loathe to go back out into the rain, but nonetheless, I do so: when Debra wants something from me, she will browbeat me until I do what she wants, and I'd rather avoid all the arm-punches that come with that.

"Fine," I snarl, exiting the car and moving towards the corner where the crime took place. The rain comes down in spades as Debs looks at me with a serious glint in her eyes:

"Those kids that Perry blinded are out of the hospital," she says quietly, matching me stride-for-stride as the already miserable night air grows even more somber.

I choose my next words wisely, "How are they?" I ask.

"How do you think?" Debra asks, sending me a sideways glance.

Huh. An unfortunate future for completely innocent children. I pride myself in being above that nonsense of hurting children, as if I am fulfilling some moral obligation by not killing them, just as I am by choosing to kill only those who have committed the same deed I have. If there was anything that made a man deserve death, it is the willing choice to harm children: those who do not know how to defend themselves, the innocent, the stupid and naïve. And, even I must say it, the Tamiami Slasher could chop up as many hookers as he wants, but the moment one kills a child, they have forfeited all rights to continue their dark and dashing ways. It is a sort of categorical imperative for me. If a man slaughters a child, he is dead and doesn't even know it.

But I will not kill the Slasher.

For all we know, he is still Darryl Perry, sitting in a jail cell, talkative as ever. I doubt it, and the rustling of wins and the sibilant chuckle in the back of my head would agree with me. Perry is not the killer, but the real killer is in the wind, and appears to have stopped now that someone else is taking all his credit. I find it bizarre that he wouldn't come to take credit for his own kills, that he would let Perry take the fall. Yes, I know it sounds sensible, but we are not a sensible brood. It is the frailty of genius, I guess: we need an audience who knows we are the authors of such discord.

We finally end up at the corner after a minute of walking an contemplating and meet Harry, who stands there, waiting for me. Debra veers off-course towards Chutsky, but Harry has me stay behind:

"Be careful," he says, dropping his voice low, "The Department can't afford anymore screw-ups, not anymore, not after yesterday. And this is not good for us. A walking shadow is killing cops and Mayors? Matthews needs to put someone's head on the table, and it looks like it's going to be Perry."

"But we haven't even proven that he's the Slasher, yet," I protest lightly.

Harry nods vigorously, "I know. But the Commissioner is not happy with the way things have run over the past few months and now we have to get a conviction on the table and turn some of those names black."

Harry is referring to how when a crime is solved, the victim's name is penned onto the Department board in black rather than red.

"Let's hope the Slasher doesn't come back then if it isn't Perry," I reply.

It most certainly isn't Perry, but Commissioner Wallace and Major Gordon will have to get ready when our favorite Jack The Ripper-reincarnation returns for another moonlit date with a woman of the night.

"Yeah, let's hope," the elder man replies, "Now go and talk to him; if you have anything good, give it to the guy. I want Homeland Security and the FBI off of us just as much as everyone else. The sooner we catch Heisenberg, the sooner he's gone, right?"

I nod in agreement, hunching over to unsuccessfully shield myself from the rain again as I make my way to the Homeland Security Task Force, made up of practically all of LaGuerta's Unit (sans a Dexter, of course), a few FBI Agents, and a couple of men from the agency that this Task Force takes its name from, including Chutsky. They all stand around the bodies lethargically, looking exceptionally like rabbits with Myxomatosis to me, twitching and flailing uselessly as the tidal wave that is Heisenberg threatens to wash them away.

They really haven't a shot, do they?

"Hey, buddy!" Chutsky calls out in a jovial voice that makes me want to skin small puppies, "what do you think?"

"Oh, so you need the 'genius' now?" I question; I think I've earned the right to be a little passive-aggressive.

The elder man scratches his forehead, abashed, "I didn't mean it that way, you know?"

I nod, "No offense taken," I reply, looking at the scene, "probably lured them in by pretending to have been stabbed or shot. Did we get any calls into the station around the time of death?" I question. Chutsky smiles and sends an obligatory glance to an FBI agent who looks a mite frightened, no doubt green, and he immediately tenses upon seeing the elder man's gaze directed towards him:

"I'm on it, sir," he says very respectfully, visibly shaking, before walking briskly away from the place where the bodies were left.

Chutsky turns back to me, "Anything else?"

"Definitely points to Heisenberg in terms of the nature of the crime. We've seen him use a Double-Tap technique before on one of the earlier victims, a drug trafficker, and well, you saw what he could do with a shotgun. Speaking of which, Sergeant Coulter said there were a few stray casings left strewn around the victims, do we have anyone up on doing a ballistics examination on the casings here and what we found at the Gibson Crime Scene?"

Chutsky gives another person a mild gaze, this time an on-hand Forensic Scientist, though I am unable to determine if they're FBI or Homeland. This person also snaps to attention at a look from him, before saying something and stalking off into the twilit night.

"But," I remark, "Heisenberg has left us clues for every single murder he's committed, or at the very least, how to stop the next one. So far as I can tell, there's nothing here that would point me in the direction of another victim." Does that mean Heisenberg will be sending me the information to his next kill in private?

"Maybe the shotgun shells are a clue?" Sergeant LaGuerta asks, finally making her presence known in the group. I had almost been surprised, considering the Sergeant usually wastes all of our time vomiting useless questions out endlessly.

But, rather than convey the true irritation I feel at the thought of one of the many idiots surrounding me interrupting my thoughts, I choose, instead, to put her down a bit more gently: "It's a start," I say, "but I doubt it. Bullets being a clue are too much of a police cliché. He's usually much more subtle, and much less."

"Well, thanks for not making any sense, there, Dex," Debs snorts; I ignore her and continue thinking. I should withhold some information from them, because I feel that this is not a game for them to play anymore. It is a game for us. Heisenberg and I.

Lightning flashes and thunder crashes.

Yes. Heisenberg and I. The lightning in the rain.

"Then what is it?" Chutsky asks, "What do you think?"

"A copycat. Someone with a similar skill-set. There's always been a clue. This is just an execution." I finish.

The Detectives send Chutsky a relieved look, as if to say 'you were right'. Debs gives me a strange look, then to the Homeland Man and then back at me again. I imagine that if I were a normal human being, I would be exceptionally confused at this point:

"What?" I ask.

"That's what I said," the scarred man replies, "your guys just wanted a second opinion."

I nod slowly, grinning slightly at how they're just a step behind. "Well, there's your second opinion," I say lightly, "Copycat. No doubt for me."

Except it certainly isn't a copycat. Shotgun spray is consistent with the left hand, which requires a certain degree of ambidexterity, but a double tap is difficult to do with your weaker hand. And, yet, all indications are that Heisenberg is ambidextrous, which is often seen only on military guys such as Doakes or Chutsky, or members of Paramilitary groups such as myself. So, either we have a copycat with the same shooting mechanics, or this is Heisenberg.

My, my, we really are slow on the uptake aren't we? It's almost too much fun.

There is a clue, I know it. But it is not here. For all I know, Heisenberg hasn't told it yet or the clue may be obvious, but the message in this is not how to stop Heisenberg... it is who he's going to kill if we don't catch him, and the Police Department will never catch him. Not with masterfully set up executions like these.

He will kill cops. As many as he wants. And no one will stop him. He is a genius. Three, four, five more deaths and suddenly everyone will be cowed.

Except, of course, for Dexter. Because he does not care how many cops Heisenberg may kill. All that matters to him is winning the little game we've set up. They are my pawns, and the various mobs are his. All to be used and discarded.

Finally, I see them as I should: tools. Useful to a degree, and then useless. The mediocre. Merely playthings. My soldiers; my useless, irresponsible, so wholly replaceable soldiers. I smile slightly upon them as Chutsky dismisses me, having the rest of LaGuerta's group to disperse to get ready for another long day.

* * *

><p>Working in Coulter's Unit isn't too terrible, actually. Deke is a moron, true as the Sergeant said, but with LaGuerta's Unit completely eaten up by the Heisenberg case and my freedom to move outside of it makes my day much easier, especially because the impossible happens: we have a murder-free day.<p>

This bit of fortuitous news comes after one of our most violent days in the death of four officers, two body guards, and one mayor. In one day, _one_ day, Heisenberg has increased his killcount by 240 percent. And all of this was done with a handgun and a shotgun. The man possesses a bit of skill neither the Tamiami Slasher or I can replicate, and it's perhaps why the Slasher has disappeared into the night and let Perry take the blame: why take the fall if you're not even the biggest game out there?

So, I set to helping out with writing up cases and teasing out some of the niggling problems with our older cases for the rest of the day, only exiting briefly to get lunch from one of the trucks outside, all of which remain open even in the pouring rain.

Once out in the wet grayness of the world, walking towards the lunch trucks a few blocks away, the rain soaking through my coat and sinking into my skin with a bone-chilling sort of coolness, I pull my phone out of my pocket alongside the phone number Guerrero gave me yesterday. From the looks of it, it appears to be a regular Miami phone number, nothing off about it, so I dial.

Two rings pass before the phone is picked up and a rough, scratchy voice answers:

"Samir," he says. Middle-Eastern by the name, African-American by the accent. I'd venture to guess either Algerian or Sudanese.

"Carlos Guerrero gave me your num-"

"-You the Detective?" He interrogates quickly, gruffly.

"Yes," I reply.

"You after that cop-killer?"

"Yes."

"I may do some things that are illegal," Samir says, "but ain't no call to be murdering police like it ain't no thing. You need me to help you track down this guy?"

"Depends," I start, "What do you do?"

"Why, I broker information, son," the voice replies, "usually at the point of a gun. If it ain't your thing, you ain't got to ask me for help."

"Why would you tell Police that?"

"This is a burner phone, brother. I ain't stupid enough to talk to murder police on my own cell."

"Ah." I say. "Getting my hands dirty isn't a problem. What I need is for you to make sure you can find the guy."

"Oh, I'll be able to, don't you worry, boy."

"Good. How will I get in contact with you?" I ask.

"Easy enough. Once I got some information and you prove you ain't tryin'a arrest me, I'll call you for a face-to-face."

The line cuts dead immediately. Interesting. Hopefully Guerrero's recommendations are good and this Samir character pays off. I put my phone away and continue on towards the lunch trucks and receive a _medianoche_ sandwich, which isn't anywhere near as good as the Café Relampago, a favorite of both the Mosers and Morgans, it will suffice for me.

And so I amble on through the day, seeing very little of Debra or any of my other normal compatriots as they have all seemed to have disappeared, whisked away to the bowels of the station, or something of the sort.

And just before I make my graceful exit, I find that Harry wishes to speak to me about something, calling me to his office. Stepping inside, I find papers and books and old files scattered about, as if Harry had suddenly turned into his daughter, throwing things haphazardly around the room without any rhyme or reason.

"What's wrong?" I ask, immediately sensing by the state of the room and Harry's face that something is very, very off.

He turns to me, and just stares at me for a long time. "Let's go out for a ride, Dex," he says, practically pulling me out of the office.

This, of course, leads me to worry. Harry has long been my own personal Superman, if Heisenberg is getting to him, I need to console him somehow, but the answer is not one that is particularly consoling: Heisenberg will kill cops. Randomly and without prejudice. Anyone could be next. A patrolman, a Sergeant, his daughter, even Harry himself. At this point, there is only one safe man, and his name is Dexter.

"What now?" The elder man asks once nestled into the relative safety of the drug-runner's former car.

I give him a questioning look, "What do you mean?" I ask.

"Don't play dumb with me, Dexter," Harry snarls, "The Major wants you out of sight, out of mind, but this Heisenberg guy doesn't care about what the Major wants. He wants _you_, am I right?"

I am always the first to say that I never cease to be amazed by Harry's exceptional intuitive and deductive skills, but sometimes, even I must groan. If Harry knows what Heisenberg is really after, if he knows this isn't just a grudge against the Police Department, then I've lost the lead I have in actually catching this guy.

"And no matter who is on that Task Force. Homeland, FBI, Doakes, Angel, Debra... they won't catch him unless you're in the group. But Chutsky can't let you on, can he? Not without raising a shitstorm between the Feds and this Department."

"And I don't think he likes me very much. Apparently Doakes has been telling his stories again."

Harry ignores the last quip. "So, then, we have to make sure to influence this case as much as possible without interfering with it."

I look at the Lieutenant with an emotion akin to amazement. This is Harry, the Harry who tried to guide me as best he could through the dangerous and wild world, the Harry who I looked up to as a second father-sometimes as a first father, too-the Harry who could do no wrong, Saint Harry, Superman Harry... and now he wishes to be, excuse the awful pun, Dirty Harry?

"There's no other way to catch him," Harry says, "You know I wouldn't do this unless I could see no other way."

But, Harry, you're playing right where I want you. In fact, you're in even better position than I though you'd be! _Fantastic_.

"Okay," I say, feigning apprehension, "What do you want me to do?"

"I'll give you whatever information you need, even if it is just observing on some of the Heisenberg crime scenes-"

"-I won't need to," I reply, "He's not going to leave anything there. Not anymore. The clues are somewhere else, with something else. I have to figure out what the clues lead to, otherwise, well... no one's safe, really. We both know who he's started to target."

Harry remains silent, as if contemplating that last part. "Yes. We know." He says after a long while.

I take a right onto the Palmetto Expressway, aimlessly driving nowhere whilst thinking: "So, I get access to the information, but?"

"But, you're not working this case. Remember that. Keep your head low, use any informants you can scrounge up; try re-interviewing witnesses like Carlos Guerrero, but keep anything your playing close to your chest unless you're sure of something that's going to occur, then, tell me, I'l be able to get it through to Chutsky's Task Force."

I nod. "Okay."

And, as if it were the will of God himself, my phone rings. And it is not Debs, wondering where her father and I are, but an Unknown Number. Heisenberg. Speak of the devil. Harry is an ally, now. Should I tell him the truth?

"Are you going to answer that?" The Lieutenant asks.

I nod, "It's Heisenberg," I say distastefully, making a quick decision, "the texts I got when I saved Lebedev were also from an unknown number."

"Are you sure?" Harry asks, when I nod, he says to put the man of the hour on speaker-phone, to which I comply.

"Dexter," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, in that sickly-sweet tone that is so familiar but so hard to place, "Do you want to play a game?"

"Would it be improper to say no?" I ask cheekily, causing Harry to give me a severe look and for the killer to chuckle a few times, before returning with a:

"Very."

"Oh, well, then. I guess I've no choice but to play then," I reply.

I can nearly _feel_ Heisenberg's shark-like grin through the receiver, "Good. The rules are simple enough. It's a bit like hide-and-go-seek. You find what I want you to find, and the bloodshed stops. But that's all up to you."

"Up to me?" I ask.

"You see," he says, laughing slightly (a schoolgirl titter, if you ask me), "The longer you take to find the item in question, the more cops that die. And no, I won't go after your friends, or even the pretty little daughter of the Lieutenant you've been playing hide-the-sausage with. Oh, yes, hello _Harry_."

Harry stiffens in his seat, and I look at him sheepishly, hoping he had not heard the sentence before his name was mentioned.

He did hear.

Ouch.

But there are more important things to deal with aside from the fact that I am porking the man's daughter. And when there's something more important than _that_, you know it's deathly important.

"You think I wouldn't notice the difference between someone on speaker phone and someone speaking into the receiver during a normal call?" Heisenberg chides, and I can feel my lip curling as we pull onto I-95, moving farther and farther away from the precinct, on autopilot since the call started. "In any case, since you two are listening-"

"How do you know that we're alone?" Harry asks, finally.

"Dexter recently rented out a two-door car from your carpool. If you were taking more than two-people on your little joyride, then a police cruiser would be more apt, wouldn't it? And you have the windows of your car open, I can hear the traffic."

He _is_ clever. I will have to watch him carefully.

"But," Heisenberg chirps, "I'm digressing. Since you two are listening, you should know that Dexter is your only chance of catching me. The rest of the people you employ? Fire them. This is a game of geniuses, they will only get burned by this. And because of this, our little game is going to raise the stakes. I will kill one cop, at random, every seventy-two hours until you-are you ready for this?"

I am dreading what 'this' may be, but I realize I have no option but to say yes. "Quite," I reply.

"Stellar," he quips, "You have to find the Tamiami Slasher."

And the pin drops, the crickets chirp, the audience goes silent. What could Heisenberg want with the Tamiami Slasher? Why would he want us to find him? Why? Why is he important?

"You needn't worry _why _he's important," Heisenberg says, as if he's been reading my mind, "Know only that you should catch him, and do what it is you must."

Fortunately, he hasn't gone all the way and revealed that I am a serial killer to Harry, but it begs to question how Heisenberg knows I am who I am. And how does he know about Debra? I mean, there are some signs, but how close has the man been that he can tell my darkest secrets? I must tread very, very lightly around this man. I don't know if I can even let him live as Harry wants. But, before I can say anything, Harry leans over to talk into the phone:

"But we already have the Slasher in custody," he reasons, and Heisenberg lets out a hysterical laugh, heaving and wheezing:

"Come on, Lieutenant, we both know neither you nor Dexter believe that inbred hillbilly is the Tamiami Slasher," he mocks. "No. No. Dexter, I want you to find the _real_ Tamiami Slasher."

"You're smart," the killer snorts, "figure it out. But think fast. Think of how many lives you could save."

And the line cuts dead. Harry and I look back and forth from each other to the road and turn around, driving back to the precinct as the night sky turns darker and darker and the rain pounds down harder and a white flash of lightning blinds us and illuminates the entire Miami skyline for a millisecond. Lightning, just like flashes of genius, the same as us. There, and then gone, only the sound of thunder and legends to tell that the lightning or genius ever existed.

And so comes our flash of lightning, our stroke of brilliance, the moment that will give way into sounds of thunder. Two masterminds playing their game, trying to anticipate and understand their opponent's next move. Heisenberg and I: the lightning in the rain. If I am to beat him in our little millisecond of illumination, I ought to find The Slasher and turn the game on its head: I will need to take initiative.

And it is about time for me to do just that.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: New chapter went by rather smoothly, this chapter really sets the tone for the rest of the fic, so I apologize if some parts were a little more on the dry side. As always, leave me a few of your thoughts on the chapter with a review. I love hearing from and responding to you, and I can't improve my writing unless I get some critiquing of some sort, right?

Geist.


	12. Identipolice

**Summary: **Heisenberg begins to make good on his promise to kill a cop every 72 hours whilst Dexter and Harry scramble to find the real Tamiami Slasher. Meanwhile, the Slasher Case comes to a close as the Federal Detail tries to scrounge up information on Heisenberg.

**Down on the Upside**

* * *

><p><em>"...the end of the world out there."<em>

-Kyle Chutsky

* * *

><p><strong>'Identipolice'<strong>

* * *

><p>"So I hear you've been taken off the Heisenberg Case, am I correct in saying this?" Dr. Meridian asks, sitting in a comfortable-looking leather chair. I find myself staring at the ceiling, lying down on a chaise lounge of similar leather-materials as the chair my 'therapist' sits in.<p>

"Yeah," I reply simply, not knowing what else to say about it.

"And why do you think that is?" He asks, trying to be soothing, I guess.

I take a moment to think, "It's toxic departmental politics, probably. The Major doesn't want me working the case anymore because I wasn't able to find the Mayor in time." Meridian gives me a truly confused look, as if wondering how I could even be blamed for that:

"And they can just take you off a case because you weren't able to save the guy?" He questions.

"When the stars align against you, there's a lot better you could do and still get a lot worse."

The psychiatrist raises an eyebrow.

"Ah," he says, I can tell he's eager to change the subject, "So, you've said your family now knows that you have Leukemia?"

Another deep breath and a moment to collect my thoughts, "Yes," I reply again.

"And how did that go?"

"Not terribly well," I snort, "My mother went into histrionics; my brother Brian was angry, my sister Dee, confused, and my eldest brother, Ben, didn't seem to be too affected by it." Meridian's ears perk up in interest at that last statement, before he scribbles something down on the notepad in his left hand:

"Why was your brother unfazed by it?"

"I don't know. He pretended to be surprised by it, but... but I can tell when people are faking pretty easily," I do it all the time myself.

Meridian nods and scribbles a few more notes down in his notebook.

* * *

><p>The first of Heisenberg's deadlines is inching ever closer, only nine hours left, if I am correct, and I still am going nowhere. Just like how the Feds and Chutsky's special 'Task Force' hasn't got a shot at finding Heisenberg unless he chooses to be found, I can't seem to find anything that may point to the Slasher still being anywhere in Miami. And this is trouble, because in nine hours, one of my pawns will likely meet God at the barrel end of a shotgun. Naturally, that doesn't faze me too much, but the fact that there is someone with this much information about me and my secret life running around double-tapping cops out of existence...if by the grace of whatever malevolent deity it is that guides this universe allows Heisenberg to be caught, even he may not prove to be of the mettle he claims to be made of and might strike up a deal to shave off the Death Penalty. Or he may just tell them because he's bored and it would cause such chaos to find that one of your detectives is a violent, depraved, serial murderer.<p>

And that's just as bad, if not worse than one paltry cop dying. You see, I'm a Utilitarian of the bravest sort: I'll let one paltry cop die so that a family may grieve, rather than letting my secret be exposed and thereby stick a knife into the very heart of the city: Dexter the Dark: Murdering Minstrel of Miami Metro; this is not his year to be caught.

Yeah, right.

"Have you gotten anywhere yet?" Harry whispers, taking a seat across from my cubicle after having shooed away most of Coulter's Unit to do busywork,

I snap shut a case file as if there were a particular annoying fly inside it waiting to be crushed. "No," I reply, "I've been using some of my contacts as well as the homeless information brokers."

"Ah, no luck with the Hobos?"

One of the well-kept secrets of the Miami Metro Homicide Department is that Harry had established a network of homeless informants and information brokers that could keep an eye on street trading as well as mob murders and such, and Harry has chosen me to pass the key on to. Not by choice, of course; I think that if there wasn't a killer threatening the lives of police, this particular legacy would have been bequeathed to the Morgan's daughter rather than the neighbor's son.

"They said they'd try to keep their ears close to the ground and tell me if they hear anything on the Slasher, but as far as we know right now, he's in the wind."

Harry grimaces, "Then how do we find him?" He asks.

"If not through this, I don't know how."

Harry puts his index finger to his head, as if he has suddenly developed a very severe headache. We both know the outcome of this if we don't find the Slasher. In two days, one of those that walks among us, completely unaware of the fate that awaits him or her, will no longer be there. He or she won't be another shadow I pass by every day on the way to and from work.

But I can't see any way to save this person.

"Dexter," says Deke, "There's a weird one at the Hotel Cacique down by the Tamiami Trail."

"A weird one?" I question.

"Yeah. Bizarre. Blood. You'll like it."

Well, that's mighty presumptive of the Detective, but I suppose I'll listen to him, "Okay. You need a ride?" I ask, the younger man nods and flashes me a brilliant smile, which does frighten me a little, but I steel myself for a terrible car ride with the man and stand up as said man tells me he'll meet me in the parking garage.

"Just... try, Dexter, please?" Harry asks, sounding desperate.

I don't like that. I don't like Harry sounding desperate at all.

"Okay. I'll try, but I can't guarantee I can get anything solid, Harry."

The elder man pauses and nods, as if letting it sink in, before he looks at me quite seriously and says: "You, Debra, and I are going to have to talk soon," he says, distracting us both from the bigger problem at hand.

Though the fact that the man you consider to be the son you never had is having sex with the woman who most certainly _is_ your one and only daughter must be a little bit awkward for anyone. But that doesn't make it any less awkward for me, either. In any case, that is nothing to dwell upon at the moment, considering that I promised to meet my terrifyingly dumb partner in the parking garage, so I get moving. Over the past two days since the two police officers, who have since been identified as Officers Foster and Rose, partners on the Vice Unit, the rain had let up for two blessedly warm days, but today, another storm front rolled in from the sea and we're being pelted once again with cold weather and even colder rain.

I step outside into the freezing rain, passing by two arguing Narcos without so much as a glance in their direction as I rub my eyes and trudge on towards the large parking garage in the distance. A car pulls into the parking lot and zooms past me, pulling into a parking spot in the lot with very little grace and two figures get out of the car: Chutsky and Debra.

Debs is wearing a real jacket today instead of the ghastly high-visibility jacket from a few days back, and she looks rather annoyed at the scarred man who seems to be oblivious to her obvious discomfort. The brunette waves in my direction and practically runs up to me, flushing slightly when she realizes that it isn't very becoming to run so happily up to an ex-partner.

"Where're you headed?" She asks.

"To the Hotel Cacique, by the Tamiami Trail."

"Isn't that where they found the first Slasher Victim?" Debs questions, walking with me in the direction of the car garage as Chutsky stops, looks at her leaving form for a moment, and then walks towards the police building. "I'm coming with." Debra says suddenly.

"Don't you have to work with Chutsky on the Heisenberg Case?"

"Fuck that," she snorts derisively, "They've got us running around in circles looking for jack_shit_, going from place to place and looking through file after file... I gotta tell you, the only thing we've found is that he employs a shooting technique seen only in Eastern Europe. Something with terrorist cells there, or something. Chutsky says it's 'probably a coincidence', so why the hell should I care about it? There's so much bullshit involved with the feds; I wanted to do some real fucking police work."

"You'll get your fair share of that here," I reply, "I haven't got the slightest about what I'm looking at for the next scene. They just say 'it's bizarre'."

Debs smiles, yawning, "I'm up for bizarre, anything but fucking _boring_," she says, "Besides, I didn't ask to be in this detail; you're my partner, not the Homeland Man over there and I'm your partner, not what ever jizzbucket they've got you working with now."

"Jizzbucket doesn't even begin to describe it," I remark, smiling fondly at the younger woman. I suppose I am being a little _too _harsh on Deke, but, truthfully, I don't really care. He has not as of yet put forth one ounce of effort or come up with anything that could garner my faith in him.

We come to the parking garage, where Deke waits patiently by my rental car. After an awkward moment of trying to introduce Debs to Deke, who, being a greasy bastard, tries to turn up the old charm on the woman, who does not take the bait, thankfully. Because of his little flirtatious outburst, I confine the soon-sullen-again lad to the back seat and take off in the direction of the Hotel Cacique.

Upon reaching there, I find Officers waiting outside the Hotel and Forensics Scientists going prophylactic to gather whatever evidence it may have been in the room that was left behind by this killer. Vince Masuka calls out to me the moment I reach the truck where he stands, one placed in a prime parking spot for a very trashy hotel:

"I need you, Dex. We're going prophylactic and you're about the only guy in all of Homicide who knows a thing or two about blood."

I snort, "Well, it's good to be needed, but I think I'd like dinner first." It's not really that clever, I know, I'm off my game today, but Vince laughs in that horribly faked schoolgirl snicker of his as if I had just made the funniest joke in history:

"Maybe next time," he replies, "for now, suit up."

If I had been a normal officer, I likely would have told Masuka to go fuck himself and clear the area for us, but seeing that I am _not_ a normal officer and that I am deeply interested in what all the hullabaloo could be about, even if it is just a distraction from Heisenberg, I choose to comply and follow Vince to the truck, where another suit awaits my jumping into it.

Naturally, once I put on the hazmat suit, I walk and feel as if I have gained ninety pounds, like wearing this puffy suit has suddenly turned me and the Forensics crew into a bunch of cellulose-filled cows carousing through a tiny and dingy flea market of the dead, lumbering along on our blind, hungry path... like men the size of coach buses on the way to the next big cache of food.

Thankfully, I am not that, and soon realize I can still walk like a normal human being and make my way into the motel and stand there for a moment, noting that Doakes stands and bores holes into the back of my head from a distance. Apparently he decided that the detail wasn't worth his time, either. I just stand, feeling comfortably lost in this sweatbox of a suit until Vince calls me over to him by the door:

"You're gonna want to go in first. We ain't got any other cops to direct us, so it'd be good to have a detective direct us around."

Translation: Vince doesn't want to take the blame if they manage to screw something up and would much rather lay it solely on me.

"Fine," I say, "I'll go in first."

"Good. Room 103." Masuka says as I ignore him and move on towards the stairs, where I eventually find myself walking down the long hallway to Room 103. The door is half-way closed, enough so that I can't see anything inside.

I am reminded of a phrase to 'Walk into the jaws of hell'. And for some reason, that is exactly what I feel like I am now doing. The 103 and the rising trepidation building in my chest and slowly moving upwards cows me slightly, forcing me to stop for a breath and to find the nerves to steel myself for whatever happens next. Which only serves to ramp up my anxiety. Dexter does not fear. Dexter does not feel anxious. Dexter does not need to _stop for breaths_! What is happening to me? And why is the Passenger suddenly so nervous?

The only answer is the skittish rustling of wings and scales of the monster retreating to whatever hovel it wastes its days away in when not bothering me.

And so, Dexter is alone. No living, breathing, scaly, organic armor to cover him this time, the Passenger is not in on this one and that is not a glowing prospect by any means. But, Dexter must carry on alone, as he always has and always will. So there he goes, moving faster on forward, against the current, riding on into the valley of death until he does meet that door, half-closed and concealing the very many wonders and horrors that hide behind this cheap plastic-mocking-wood frame, meant to cover so weakly, so feebly, the gifts left behind to ensorcell the android man who by what random chance comes walking this way.

And I push the door back, and find myself staring at the most beautiful scene I have ever seen.

Blood. Blood. Beautiful, hot, messy, gooey blood. It covers everything. The walls, the floors, the beds and the curtains; the television, the clock, the radio (playing Devo, by the way, a band Debs loves but would never admit it), the chairs, the paintings, and the desks: all such a bloody, bloody mess.

It overwhelms me, the beauty. I feel myself breathing heavily, marveling at the quiet serenity, how absolutely and uncannily pristine it truly is to watch the mess, to watch the blood just run... but it starts peeling away and I feel claustrophobic. My breathes become shorter and far more laborious than previously were and I feel a sense of euphoria threatening to overtake me as flashes and crashes of things I've never seen before surround me. Lights and sounds of chainsaws, and blood up to my ankles.

Crying. Crying for daddy. Where is he? Why won't he answer? He just stares. I want mommy and Biney. Where are they? Why aren't they here, why not with me?

Darkness creeps in from the edges of my eyes, and the ground looks so, so very comforting. Maybe just a small nap.

And suddenly the ground rushes up to meet my body.

* * *

><p>There are shadows all around me. We are in the woods. Shadow trees and inky little bits and pieces of brush line the dark, rich, loamy soil of earth. To the right, the sound of a river, obsidian currents and tides running down past this little secluded piece of paradise as leaves the shade of dusk fall over me and mixes with slow pitter-patter of rain and the tremulous cadence of slow claps of thunder rolling in, casting its notes of approval towards the full, happy, mocking moon, which provides a sliver of light in the gloaming.<p>

Great penumbra oaks shoot from the mystic soil, gnarling their way up into the twilit sky and I stare open-mouthed at the scene of vast and primordial beauty that encases me in their hauntingly pretty grasp. I stop to look around and find a child in my midst. He is blond, around nine years-old, and beaming brightly at me. He winks and runs off in the direction of the river.

I don't know who he is, but I suddenly feel the urge to follow him. I run up an incline, seemingly going nowhere and the scenery just passes by me as if I am running on a treadmill past moving pictures in slow motion as I try to get closer to the child.

But suddenly the incline plateaus at an incredible altitude after what feels like hours of running. The blond little boy, so very familiar, smiles at me again and asks me something, though I can't understand what, and scampers to the edge of a cliff that hadn't been there when I first climbed up to the plateau, and the boy points at a piece of wire that stretches on like a tightrope to a similar mountain across the chasm. He balances on it and practically skips across, waving for me to follow. And as much as I want to follow, as much as I truly wish I could run after that child, I find myself to afraid to cross this wire, unsure of what swirls in the depths below. Afraid. So afraid. And lonely.

And suddenly cries are escaping my lips, but all I can hear is the pitiful wailing of a child as I am dragged back to consciousness.

* * *

><p>"Dex," he calls distantly, vision and hearing are slow to return, "Dex!" Masuka calls again, this time, a little louder.<p>

"What?" I grumble irritably, trying to stand up and calm myself but finding that I need to get out of here and back into the, even though it's raining, fresh, clean, Miami air. I push past Masuka and down to the first floor, keenly aware of all the blood on my suit as I pull off the headwear, eager to be out of the hazmat suit as I practically run outside and into the rain, letting the cold, wet needles wash away the blood and return my suddenly fragile state of mind to that blank nothingness I am so fond of.

"Jesus Christ!" I hear a familiar female voice say and I turn to see Debs, Deke and a few other cops rushing towards me, including one curious James Doakes.

I remain silent as Debra fusses over the blood all over me and practically pulls the hazmat suit off me and chucks my jacket at me, which I put on in a state of disorientation, gently pushing Debs away as I take off the suit and put on my jacket, staring at Doakes, who looks on slight confusion:

"What happened in there, Moser?" He asks, looking both menacing and concerned at the same time, however I'm pretty sure that the elder man's concern is more about what might be in Room 103 if it managed to faze the normally emotionless Dexter.

But, I see no reason to irk the man even when he's pretending to be nice: "I couldn't breathe," I say, putting my hood up over my face as Debs gives me a worried glance, "I can't go back in there."

It slips out without my even processing it, but once I think back on it, I realize that I can't go back inside. There is something nameless in that room, something that affects me and I am not entirely sure I want to know what it is.

"Okay, okay," Debra reassures me, looking to Doakes, who nods:

"Nice to see even you're human," the elder Detective sneers and turns towards the other officers and leads them into the building.

Debs leads me to my car and Deke looks a little lost until the brunette tells my 'partner' to join the other officers and meet with the Forensics crew. We both enter into opposite sides of the car and she sits there for a moment in the Passenger's seat staring out into the rain at the hotel before she turns to me with a terribly serious glint in her green-brown eyes:

"Are you okay, Dex?"

"I..." The screams of a child calling for his daddy, covered in red and staring back at him, unseeing. And then the dream. Chasing a child through the shadowy forest across a wire and into the unknown, but being too afraid to cross. How very strange all of it was, "...I don't know." I finish rather lamely.

Debs tries to say something, wetting her lips and looking upwards as if to pull the right words out of the air.

But something comes to me, something that had latched on to the back of my mind for decades and somehow, perhaps from the tumble I took upon seeing the bloodied hotel room, it was dislodged and now floats through my brain for some reason: who was my father?

Not Norman, nor Harry, none of my surrogate fathers... who was my true, real, biological father? The one that my mother said died in a car accident when I was two years old? Who was he? Did he really die in a car accident? Because I'd love to believe my mother, but my mind is whispering doubts; doubts that arise from the brain like water from a wellspring.

Who was my father?

And who am I? It's a thought that never occurred to me, that someone out there carried the same genetic strand as I did, with similar feelings and insecurities that I might have had, had I been normal. And that's a bizarre thought to come to. I have never once considered what fathered my existence, what he was like, why he was so important, if he passed anything of his own to special, wonderful me...

It would be a terribly strange question to ask my mother, but that little voice, whether the Passenger's or my own, eggs me on to ask her.

Suddenly, I feel a warm presence nearby me. Whilst caught up in my own thoughts, I hadn't realized that Debra has nuzzled up against shoulder, nor did I realize that I instinctively wrapped an arm around her: "Come to my place tonight, okay?" She says, absentmindedly playing with my fingers and threading them between hers.

She looks up and gives me a serious look, which tells me I best be there, and who am I to deny her? "Alright," I say, knowing instinctively she wants to talk about whatever it is that is bothering me, but I am immensely glad that I don't have to discuss it at the moment.

"So..." she says, still pawing at my fingers like a cat does a dangling toy, "what now?"

"We wait for them to finish up in there and they'll tell us what they find once all that blood goes to the Lab." I reply, going over basic procedure that Debra already knows.

"No, jackass," she says, "What now? What are you going to do now?"

I shrug, "I don't know." I reply. "I'm not on a case anymore, so I'll just wait on this."

The brunette shakes her head in exasperation and smiles slightly, "Any gut feelings on this?"

"No," I reply at length. But what she says gives me pause; I _do_ have a gut feeling about this. And it is one that simultaneously excites and terrifies me. I don't know how, I don't know why, but I know that this was the work of the 'real Tamiami Slasher', perhaps irked at the headline saying the Darryl Perry was due in court in two days.

He's still out there. And he's still talking to me.

Delicious.

Soon enough, Debra, Deke, and I are all able to leave the Hotel Cacique and return to the precinct, meaning there is only seven hours left and that someone will die at six in the evening tonight. Debs returns to her ill-fated group of Heisenberg-chasers and I plop myself down at my new cubicle and close my eyes, wracking my brain for any answers as to where the Tamiami Slasher is, but for some reason, that urge to ask my mother about my real father, the one Brian and I share, becomes overwhelming and seemingly very important suddenly. It's as if learning about my father, for some unknown reason, is the answer to every problem facing me right now.

So, after a moment, I get up and tell Harry that I need to leave for an 'extended lunch'. The Lieutenant, whilst in the presence of several Detectives and a few Sergeants, understands the hidden meaning behind the question and lets me go, after which I go outside and take out my phone, dialing my mother's number and waiting for her to pick up the phone.

Once she does, a soft and tranquil 'Hello' on the other line, I tell her that I am coming over for lunch. My mother says yes, and I rush to my car, probably looking pretty spry for a man with cancer, and race over to my childhood abode.

When I enter the foyer of my ancestral home, the only thing that tells me that there's anyone else home is the soft music in the parlor, where no doubt my sister sits in a meditative, zen-like state and the scent of my mother's cooking. Dee eyeballs me with a disinterested stare, likely as not the confusion she had been feeling wore off and my sister has chosen her preferred emotion to feel towards me, namely: anger. It seems like it will take some time to patch things up with her... if that's her now, imagine when the _real_ truth comes out?

"Dee, where's ma?" I ask.

Her stare seems to convey a slight bit more annoyance because she was addressed by me, as if me merely speaking is a mortal sin. She points in the direction of the kitchen before closing her eyes and returning to ignoring me. I stride towards the kitchen and push the white door open, finding my mother, though advanced in years, still as pretty as ever, fussing over something in the oven:

"Hey, mom," I greet from behind; my mother makes a little 'Oh!' sound as she turns towards me with a soft smile:

"Hello, Dexter," she clasps her hands together and moves towards me, at once jabbering about food, "I've been reading up on how to feed someone with-with..." Laura trails off, unable to say 'cancer', but I let her continue, "...with your illness-" she chooses to settle upon.

"-Oh yeah?" I ask, making small talk, "Like what?"

"Lots of vegetables and protein to keep you strong; you're a growing boy, after all," she quips, patting my cheek twice.

I raise an eyebrow at her: "Ma, I'm thirty."

My mother simply smirks as she tells me to open my mouth wide for a bit of her pork roast. "So?" She asks, placing a piece of the roast in my mouth. Of course, seeing that my mother is perhaps the best chef that no one knows about in the state of Florida, it is a divine bit of pork roast that melts in your mouth, but I'll refrain from speaking of such sinful ecstasies.

But, I realize I have to ask her the question I came for at some point, so... now or never, "Mom?" I ask.

"Yes?"

"How did my dad die?"

Her hand freezes on the handle of a pan she is cooking some stuffed mushrooms in, "What do you mean?" She asks, turning and staring at me as if I've lost my mind, "You were there." She's referring to Norman Moser, not my 'real' father.

"Not 'our' dad, _my_ dad," I reply, "my biological father?"

"Joe?" My mother asks, and I can tell she's about the lie. The sudden twitch of the lips and the cheek, her shallower breaths, the way she looks up to the ceiling as if to remember a rehearsed lie, "Well, he died in a car accident when you were two years old, Dex. Why?"

"Because you're lying," I state simply.

"I'm lying?" My mother questions confusedly, "Why would you think that?"

"I have my reasons," I reply, "What really happened?"

"W-why do you want to talk about this."

"Because..." I reply, looking for my next words, picking and choosing carefully. I realize that Laura will need to be convinced to tell me what happened to my real father, so I decide to tell her part of the truth, "I've... I've been having dreams, lately. About something that happened to me when I was a kid."

Suddenly my mother looks fearful, "What do you remember?" She asks in a hurried, insistent manner.

"Bits and pieces, mostly," I say, trying to assuage her of any fears or convulsions or heart palpitations she may be having at the moment, "I remember seeing his face, though." A little scare may do me some good, right? "Wide open, unseeing. Covered in blood. And I was in that blood, wasn't I?"

"For two days," Laura blurts out, before clapping a hand to her mouth, shocked that she let that slip.

Now we're getting somewhere. "Two days?" I question.

"In a shipping container," she says, looking uncomfortable at the prospect of telling me this, "Your father, Joe Driscoll, took you as a toddler. We split up, I got Brian, he got you."

"And?"

My mother puts a hand to her face in shame, "Dexter, you don't want to-"

"Tell me," I urge, developing a hard, impatient edge to my voice,

"Alright," she says at length, "your father and I were involved in drug trafficking back then. It was a botched deal that Joe headed up, apparently he stole some of the drugs to sell for himself." Drug trafficking? My sweet, dear mother, the best cook in all of Miami slinging _dope_?

_Dope_?_ MY mother, _slinging_ DOPE?_

"Drug trafficking," I repeat, now understanding why she didn't want to talk about this.

Laura takes a quick look to make sure Dee or Ben doesn't appear in the doorway, she leans in to whisper, "Promise you won't tell any of your siblings?"

I salute her and say "Scout's honor," trying to smile, but I think it looks more sickly than anything else.

"Cocaine was starting to become a hot commodity when you and your brother were born, and gangs from all over the country were starting to set up in Miami to get the drop on the others and use the city as a gateway into the country," My mother begins, "We were young and stupid and trying to make some money. But... you know how these stories go, we got in too deep, and..."

And my father ripped-off a bunch of homicidal drug dealers. It appears I received my admittedly large brain capacity from my mother's side of the family, thankfully. And something seems to strike me odd about the whole conversation, and I remember something... something, but what was it? And then I think. Harry was in my 'dreams'. When I saw those two crying children, I thought of a much-younger Harry picking me up.

And then it comes. "You turned a Confidential Informant, didn't you?"

"How did you know?"

"Harry," I reply, but don't elaborate.

"Oh." She says, bringing a thoughtful index finger to her lips, "Then you must know."

Know? Know what?

And when she tells me, I find myself needing to speak to Harry quite urgently. I hurry through the rest of the conversation, assured my mother doesn't know anything else. She finally breathes out in relief and tells me that it's actually good to have gotten that off her chest and then she thanks me and feeds me a stuffed mushroom and we go and eat lunch.

After being sufficiently stuffed with food and ignored by Dee for an hour whilst Mom looked on awkwardly and tried to make conversation about the Tamiami Slasher Case as well as Heisenberg (Ben was sadly not able to be present, away on some business), leading to our dear sister's countenance morphing, amazingly, into a face of even deeper dourness, I return to the precinct feeling surprisingly good.

Strolling through the doors, I head directly towards Harry's office, and step inside:

"Wow," I say; Harry, alone, gives me questioning glance, "You and my mother." I must admit, the older man looks surprised for the briefest of moments before steeling his countenance and replying:

"Wow. You and my daughter."

And I must admit, that makes me chuckle a little bit.

"Dexter," he says, "I would be lying if I said I didn't see this coming; only an idiot wouldn't think so. But, that being said, I only have one rule for you two to continue: you have to tell her, Dexter."

I imagine I must look confused, "Tell her what?"

"Why you left the country. And what you did out there."

I snort. "That's all?" I question sarcastically.

"Look, Dex," Harry says, "I know you don't like telling many people what happened in Eastern Europe, or what you did out there, but Debra _has_ to know what she's getting into with you. This isn't a relationship with the boy she had a crush on back in high school-"

"Yes, it's with a broken man."

Harry seems to be undeterred by my overly-sardonic response and continues, "Imagine how difficult it will become if she doesn't know this huge part of your life that has shaped you so much! I know, when you came back, you were not the same boy who dropped off the the map in 1994."

Of course, I could tell Harry to keep his nose out of my business and go on about my day, but my loyalty to him mingled with a strange desire to share the information with Debra causes me to say, rather oddly: "Okay."

I find it rather strange that I said yes at all, but stranger still is that now that Harry's mentioned telling Debs the 'truth', or, at least, part of it, I want to tell her. Bizarre world, right?

"But something tells me that's not what you're here for."

I snort, "No, naturally not," I answer in the negative, "You must know that since I know about you and my mother, I know about what happened when I was a kid."

Harry nods, rubbing his chin. "Yes. The Shipping Container," he says, "I tried to get your mother to keep Joe from stealing the cocaine, but he wouldn't listen, she said. They weren't on good terms anyways, after they split. Your father tried to sell a bit on his own, and they kidnapped him, the other runners that ripped them off, and then a Cartel guy chopped them up with a chainsaw."

"In front of me," I finish.

Harry grimaces. "Yes," he affirms, at length, "in front of you. We tried to find you, but no one knew where you were and by the time some of the Port workers opened the shipping container, you'd already been there for two days, sitting in blood, starving, alone, and probably very nearly driven out of your mind."

Wait. Is that why... is that why I've always felt this way? Like nothing matters, only killing?

"Was I diagnosed with anything? You know, like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

"Not diagnosed, no," Harry replies, "But when Laura came to get you, she said you were never the same as before. Even Brian noticed the difference. Bu, you were probably young enough to suppress the memory, and neither Laura or I wanted to remind you."

I could further pursue this conversation and ask why my mother chose to move so close to him if there was so much history between the two, and how he could have cheated on his wife, no doubt whilst she was pregnant with Debs, but I have no interest in my mentor's personal failings and prefer not to talk about his sex life and instead start thinking about the shipping container. Why am I thinking about that? Why is that important?

"You wouldn't happen to have a number for that shipping container, would you?"

Harry gives me a questioning glance, "Dex, it's been twenty-seven years; I don't remember the number. Maybe if you check city records for newspapers. October Third, 1978."

Good idea, Harry. I have no idea why this is so important, but for some reason, my gut feeling and the Passenger's dark little whispers are in tune, telling me not to ignore this precious little clue.

"I'll be going there, then."

"Something important?"

"Maybe," I reply.

There is a long moment of one of those awkward silences right after two mean have shared an extremely important and quiet conversation where the air becomes saturated with melancholy and mood, silent and introspective as both of us gather our thoughts of what each other has done: Me gathering the relationship between my surrogate father and my real mother as well as _the_ moment-I call it the moment because there is no way that my father's death wasn't what caused me to become the shell I am-and Harry still, even after four years may still be trying to grasp the things I did and experienced in six short years, as well as the slow-forming relationship between his daughter and myself. So we are silent, staring off into the distance, looking at everything and nothing for one bizarre, enervating, zen-like moment of peace.

"Dex," Harry says suddenly, looking at the clock, "the new Mayor is being sworn in in a few minutes, and I have to be there. Sergeant LaGuerta will be taking over as Lieutenant while I'm gone, okay? Tell me if you get anything. Don't hesitate to call if you do."

"I'll be out, too," I reply, "I'll be heading to the the City Records, the Hotel Cacique, and then the Port of Miami."

"Be careful," Harry replies, "Heisenberg is now considered to be a terrorist by the U.S. government, and you're not on the case, so security is both bound to be beefed up with Feds and you have no reason to be there."

"It's alright," I reply cheekily, "I've been trained."

"That's very reassuring," Harry replies, holding the door open for me, which I slip through with a thank you.

I race through the mid-afternoon Miami traffic, but the other citizens of my delightfully homicidal hometown do not seem to understand how urgent finding out where this shipping container is? Don't they understand that a police officer's life is on the line? Actually, never mind, if they knew, they'd probably be moving slower.

But, I finally do reach the city records and immediately ask to review the Herald from October 1978.

It doesn't take long to find 'FIVE DEAD AT PORT OF MIAMI' from October third of that year, listing a few people not named Joe, and then a Joe Driscoll as the last man. I suppose I should feel shocked, even dismayed, but somehow I feel relieved. This is how I became who I am. Two days trapped in blood because my father couldn't keep his hands off a few quick bucks... forever doomed to be this empty shell of a man.

This would be the time for a normal man to pity himself and the lot in life he has been given by forces outside his control. Fortunately, I am no such thing, and only feel a sense of curiosity arise from this knowledge. If this is what The Tamiami Slasher wanted me to find out, _why _does he want me to find it out. What does something that happened twenty-seven years ago matter now? Why does he care?

I notice that the picture has the shipping container is put in the focus of the picture, but it is a little difficult to make out the SCC amid the terribly grainy photo from the late '70s. Fortunately, to solve such problems, I find myself prepared with a magnifying glass, which I use to decipher the code:

CBAN-3489.

Seems unassuming enough. And probably _is_ unassuming; it's maybe filled with bananas or something, but, nevertheless, checking never hurt me before. But, first things first, I should go to the Hotel, to see if I can find anything. I don't know what will happen, whether I'll pass out again or be fine this time around when all the Forensic workers tasked with cleaning up the room have gone to lunch, so I go there.

The room is a lot cleaner than before. The blood has been dried, and stained into the carpet; the owners will definitely have to rebuild the room from scratch. The sense of euphoria starts to build. Once again, I am at a loss, but this feels _good_. The confusion the uncertainty, just how _out-of-order_ it is compared to practically everything else in my life.

But why here? What is so special about this place? Masuka told me the blood was a cocktail of at least five to six different people and it would take weeks to extricate which blood belonged to whom, if it could be done at all.

Home.

The word seems to pop up in my mind, swimming to the forefront of my thoughts. Why would I think that? What does this have to do with home? Of course, people go to hotels on vacation, so it's technically a home away from home, but that seems so pedestrian to think of, and the Slasher is nothing if not subtle.

So, this must be a part of the puzzle I've already solved.

"Buddy," a familiar voice calls; I turn to see Kyle Chutsky staring at the bloodied walls, "Well, someone did a number on this place."

I let out a low, hollow, unfeeling laugh. "Yeah. They did." I say.

He steps up to me, looking outside through the blood-spattered windows: "It's dark."

"Probably rain," I respond.

"Looks like the end of the world out there."

"Probably is."

Chutsky turns to look at me, "You're not much of a talker, are you? Debbie says you think too much."

I snort. "She's probably right. And she hates that name." I tell the elder man that for his own safety; calling Debra 'Debbie' is the faux pas equivalent of waltzing into the Kremlin and calling Mr. Putin 'Vladdy' in an overly-affectionate manner. Chutsky, however, states that he will call Debs that and assume she likes it until she tells him otherwise.

"You want back in on the Heisenberg Case?" He asks suddenly, staring at the rain as it falls down the windowpane, "Your Major doesn't have to know, I could bring you back on. Turns out I may need a genius or two."

"I'm working on a case right now."

Chutsky lets out a gust of air, "I had a feeling you'd say something like that. Debbie says you have to finish cases. But isn't this one a much bigger prize? Catching the man who killed twelve people?"

"No." I reply, Chutsky looks taken aback, "The Major, the Captain, and the Lieutenant all want me to stay off this case, and I agree: it's _toxic_. He'll kill cops until he's bored. That's the way these people work." But only two late do I realize my mistake:

"What makes you think he's going to kill cops? I thought you said that was a copycat?" He asks, being suddenly, and very unnaturally, perceptive.

But I am nothing if not clever, and am far superior to an old killer who now chases terrorists, "It's a hunch. You can't discount that he didn't kill those two cops until more concrete evidence comes through, and he has killed cops before. And if it is a copycat, the man is in the wind. No one can find him, can they?"

"You're right about that much," he responds.

"Yes, then, I'll work on my case and you work on yours," I reply. The more vindictive I sound, the better, because that makes it far less likely that I will end up on the task force again. And, like magic, the elder man gives me a weak smile and nods, before turning around and leaving me behind to stare out at the rain.

Once I am sure he's gone, I turn away from the room. This is nothing but a dead end. I've passed through the stage where I needed the hotel, and there is only one place left to go: The Port of Miami.

* * *

><p>Sometimes I find myself surprised at the strange timing of 'normal' people. As I come to the Port, I find a preponderance of Feds that definitely were not here five days ago. It looks like getting in might be even tougher than I thought. Harry was forced to keep this entire 'operation', of sorts, under wraps because of the deep shit it would pull both the department and the Feds into, and Harry's judgment is almost always sound. If we waste time trying to get the Feds to listen to us, way more cops may die than if Dashing Dexter did the honors:<p>

But that means that Dexter has to do the deed first.

And that means he must find a way into the Port. I circle around slowly in my car, inspecting the fence for a weakness for the second time this week and hope to God that the Port Officer, Anthony Moss, would show up and give me another free ride into the Port. But, seeing as there appear to be multiple dockworkers being watched by Feds, I realize that I have no way of getting in without drawing suspicion, especially during the day, no matter how hard the rain is coming down. It looks like I will have to wait until nighttime and find a way in from there.

Until, of course, I see _it_.

A small snipping away at the overlarge chain-link fence that is about the size of a human man about my size and weight that is far away from prying eyes and CCTV Cameras. I do not believe in miracles, but that, if anything, is the most fortuitous sort of coincidence I have ever run across.

So, I drive away from the entrance and park my car a safe, walking-distance away from the Port and open my trunk.

Being a serial murderer, disguises are practically my life. I disguise myself to others physically and mentally, and that requires a little bit of acting. As well as props. Three such props are a port-worker's jacket, clipboard, and hard hat I picked up from my apartment before coming this way. I had gotten the jacket because of a certain architect I was investigating for suffocating women needed to be met with by a Port Worker Union Leader.

Of course, the only thing the architect met that night was a reciprocating saw through the throat, but now the disguise has redeemed itself for one more use, and so I throw them on over my street clothes.

And soon, Dexter the Dockworker passes by unseeing eyes and into the Port because of that little man-sized snipping within the fence. At last, I find myself coming out the other side in between a row of shipping containers. I move towards where the Dock computers should be to locate CBAN-3489, and pass by one of the Port guys writing something down on a clipboard, who looks up at me for a moment and then nods and smiles:

"Hey," He greets jovially, before returning to scribbling nonsense onto whatever's atop that clipboard.

I return the favor and keep moving forward,

There is something very interesting about the maze that is the Port, and the idea that Batista thought Miami was a city of boxes wasn't entirely idiotic. Metaphorically speaking, of course, Miami (despite what they tell you about it being a cultural center) is a place where a great many people box themselves in and shut out anyone unlike them. So, it _does_ create twists and weaves, and boxes stacked atop each other, making it all but impossible for someone like me, who belongs with no one, to find his way around the city.

Ah, damn. Too much rambling. Lack of sleep is starting to turn me senile.

But, senile or not, I find myself at the terminal where it appears that all the Port technology is. It isn't terribly hard to hack into the computer once I begin to access it, it only takes two minutes, and I find myself looking at a screen of all the containers on the latest freighter to pass through the Port. However, that is not what I want to locate, so I find the search bar and input the SCC Code and see where it takes me.

It turns out that CBAN-3489 _is_ still in Miami, but it also happens to be on the other side of Port, which isn't a major inconvenience, but it requires a lot of walking, which could entail just about anyone detecting me. Fortunately for me, however, no one outside the Police world seems to know who Dexter Moser is, so I look like any other Irish Dockworker; I even imitate an accent for anyone who may greet me along the way, but mostly keeping to my own business and stopping to check some other containers, where I write nonsense down on my own clipboard.

When I reach the other end of the Port, I find it in my good fortune that the Shipping Container where my father was murdered is at the bottom, rather than the top of the stacks. And even better is that shipping containers are admirably easy to open, I don't even have to use my lockpicks!

The two doors open wide in front of me and reveal a vast blackness. It's nice to get out of the rain for a moment, but then I realize it is a refrigerated container and shiver instinctively. It is too dark to see anything inside, but fortunately, as a Detective, I am required to have a flashlight on my person at all times. It takes a few seconds for me to close the container behind me and flip on the torch, watching as it bathes the far end of the box in a luminous glow.

Sudden flashes of red, sinking, crying, grotesque face staring unseeing at me.

Now is not the time! I steady my breathing, which has picked up since closing the container doors behind me, and bring the light down from the ceiling to the floor, where a small object out lays.

It is a small Barbie doll, which is missing a head.

A head that sits in my freezer right now.

I walk up to it, and find that there is a note attached to the underside. 'Welcome Home', it says.

A dead end? There's nothing here. Nothing but the damned head and nothing more. No clues, _nothing_! Harry trusted me to ID and find the Slasher, and in, approximately thirty minutes, I will have to go back to him completely empty-handed. For all my identi-policing, I have naught but the wind and a dead cop to show for it.

* * *

><p>His name was Huey Donnelly, a Narcotics Officer who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I stand next to Joey Quinn, my partner from the Sokolov Case, staring at the body in my mild horror. This is not pity, or revulsion, or Dexter growing a metaphorical soul, I am simply disappointed in myself. I do not like to lose, and another dead man makes my failings taste even more bitter, if that were possibly. Getting out of the Port the way I came was easy enough, but by the time I had neared the HQ, Dispatch had sent me to an address near Calle Ocho, where I find myself gazing upon another fallen comrade, who, this time, took a shotgun blast to the chest. A different shotgun this time, too. Rounds are different.<p>

"Jesus," Quinn remarks, "What's this fuck playing at?"

I say nothing, because Debra, who has just arrived, says it for me: "Who knows what _any_ of these fucks are thinking?"

Who, indeed?

The next fifteen minutes is characterized by intense solemnity as both Forensics and Police walk up to the corpse of one of their own, completely pole-axed. The Feds have already been alerted and Miami is now on Red Alert for a Terrorist threat. Heisenberg will be turned over as a full-on Homeland Security Case from now on, and something tells me that this is just the beginning of our labor pains.

My hypothetical heart keeps beat until I find a police cruiser pulling up to the crime scene, and Harry steps out, shaking his head at the body in disappointment. My fake heart? Drops like a rock. Harry turns my way and simply says:

"Darryl Perry has been given the 'guilty' verdict. He's going on Death Row."

It's a strange thing for Harry to mention so casually to the others around us, as they probably expected Harry to say something about the dead cop or the new Mayor, Rose Weil, but that statement was meant for me. The Tamiami Slasher is a closed case, now, and we'll have to catch him on our own.

For right now, that is good enough. But I fear what we'll have to do if and when we do catch the modern-day Jack the Ripper. Killing him may expose who I am to Harry, but I know exactly what Heisenberg meant by 'do what you must', and more officers and detectives will die if I don't do something. And Harry will _have_ to understand that, because while Harry and I are pretty much safe from harm, his daughter (and my 'girlfriend') isn't.

But, we'll cross that bridge when it comes, won't we?

A few minutes later, when everyone has sufficiently run through expression of horror, dumbstruck confusion, and rising fear, Debs drags me back to my car, telling Harry that she and I are off the clock. Harry gives me a knowing stare, and I nod quickly, eager to allay and fears he may be having.

We get into my car and drive to Deb's apartment, where she sits once we pull into a parking lot, staring out the windshield at her building before speaking:

"Holy shit," she remarks, breathing out the shock with a whisper. I don't know what else to do, so I just nod with her, mechanically. "Jesus. What the hell's this world coming to?"

It's silent for a moment, as I contemplate how to tell Debs what Harry wants me to tell her, what she so desperately wants to know about: What happened in those six years I went missing from her life. And I know I have to. I may not have a heart, but Debs is about the closest a person can get to inducing such feelings in me that only a normal human could have.

And she has to know. Maybe it will make her leave, which can allow me to retreat back into myself, without fear of ever ending up with a great love or as close as dimly-feeling Dex can get; or, maybe, Debra will accept it and there may be something to work from there.

But it has to be done.

The rain pours down in buckets, and suddenly I feel her hand upon mine over the gear lever.

She smiles in an abashed manner, looking from me and back to my hand before resting her head on my shoulder and muttering: "The only thing that's real...". I open my mouth to speak, but that one horrifying, miraculous thought comes to the forefront of my mind and stays there the whole night.

The only thing that's real.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>Nothing to really say about this chapter, other than that we've hit the home stretch. There are only about three-to-four chapters left (haven't decided for sure, I've just kept it as four on my profile), and one short epilogue chapter, and then, on to whatever comes next (though it most likely will be a sequel to this). Next chapter may be a little delayed due to work-related incidents. I won't be able to give you an exact date, but it may come out sometime between next week or the week after. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, and me, being the feedback-whore I am wish for the total to get up to at least 65. Come on, you guys can do it!

Just dreaming, I know...

Thanks again for reading!  
>Geist.<p> 


	13. Lone Physician

**Summary: **A killer who appears to be copying the Tamiami Slasher's M.O. strikes, causing confusion at Miami Metro and giving Dexter his first tangible lead to finding the real Slasher before Heisenberg kills another cop. Debra deals with the fallout from learning about Dexter's past.

**Down on the Upside**

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><p><em>"Well. Are you going to shoot?"<em>

- Harry Morgan

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><p><strong>'Lone Physician'<strong>

* * *

><p>Debra stares at me, mouth slightly ajar. I can't tell if it is in shock, or in awe; in horror or in revulsion. I certainly hope it isn't any of those, but I wouldn't be terribly surprised if it were. After all, when your childhood best friend tells you he spent six years in Eastern Europe- a year and a half worth of those in a Russian prison, no less!- that isn't something anyone would take very lightly, so I don't blame Debs.<p>

She leans back into the couch, staring at me, licking her lips as if looking for something to say that might make sense.

But this really isn't one of those moments that makes very much sense, right? "How did…" she tries to say, "How did you… how'd you get back here? And how'd you get a job with the police after being in prison?"

"This was the '90's, Debs," I reply, "They weren't going to waste their time trying to figure out who an undocumented thief really was; that's a waste of effort. Much easier to just throw me in and leave me there to rot. Isn't like I'm getting out anytime soon."

"No trial, nothing?"

"Debs," I say slowly, as if explaining it to a schoolchild, "It was Russia. During the '90's. They had bigger things to deal with."

"So," she says, realizing it at long last, "That's why you have all the scars. From Bosnia, and Russia."

Well, the Czech Republic, Croatia, and Slovakia as well, but that's all the same to Debs, who, for all her practical knowledge, wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Poland and Romania even when looking straight at a map of Eastern Europe.

She leans in and lifts up my shirt ever so slightly, running a finger along the very long, jagged scar I attained a few months after leaving the Vladivostok Prison, while in 'training' with my fellow friends from the institution that has crafted me into the fine killer I am today.

Debra traces another scar: "This one?" She asks.

"Roadside bombing in Karachi," when Debs looks confused, I clarify: "Pakistan."

"Doing what?" The brunette asks, staring intently at the scar.

I shrug, "Counter-terrorism ops? Contrary to what people think, post-Soviet Russia was still quite interested in what goes on in the area. The Middle East and Pakistan are powder kegs for them. So, they do their best to interfere without really interfering directly."

"So, what? Like… black ops?" Debs questions.

I shake my head. "More like a proxy army," I reply, "No muss, no fuss for the Russian government."

The Officer sighs, running her free hand through her hair as she looks up at me, and stares for a long moment. Debra searches for something, looking at me hard, trying to understand why I would tell her this:

"Well," she starts, "I can understand why you wouldn't want to tell anyone, but-" she pauses to rest her hands on my chest, "-but why me? Why now?"

It takes my normally intelligent brain longer than expected to come up with an excuse other than 'Your dad told me to'. But, I must say that I do come off as being very convincing when I do; partially because I'm not truly lying, and partially because I am a very good fibber for the parts I am lying about.

"Because if this relationship is to go anywhere," I say, "if this is going to mean _anything_, you have to know. You have you know that I am not a good man, that I am really… not the best choice for you."

It's all very sentimental and wishy-washy, I know, but it isn't as if I'm lying about that. I really _am not_ the best choice for Debs and I sometimes wonder why I am trying so hard to keep this relationship from dying out. I mean, why should I, when it ultimately means that Debs will be even more heartbroken when the cops do eventually dig up my bodies and drag me to Raiford to await the death penalty.

But I am drawn out of my reverie by a particularly vicious punch to my shoulder from the woman who claims to be my best friend (though I'm fairly sure by now it's just because she enjoys punching me).

"Ow!" I exclaim in spite of myself, "What was that for?"

"Jesus, you're such a cock-cliché, 'Oh, Debra, I'm broken, I can't help it; I'm no good for you!'! Fuck you."

"Fuck me?" I ask; I must admit, the turn in this conversation has me confused.

Debra looks at me hard, before moving one of her hands from my chest to my face, "If I wanted _what's good for me_, I'd have fucking moved into a convent and become a nun."

It takes all my self-control to keep from laughing at the mental image of motormouth-Debs as a serene, God-fearing Christian in a nun's garb.

"And you, if you chose what was good for you, you'd never have left Miami and probably ended up a doctor like your brother," Debra continues, "But, no, we choose something else than 'what was best' for us. And, I'd like to think the way things turned out is better than 'best'."

There are some moments where I find myself so totally shocked at the irrationality of some people that I can't speak, because what happened simply does not compute in Dexter's overly-logical brain. This is one of those moments.

But, instead of fighting her, I agree with Debra, "You're right," I say, shrugging.

Deb furrows her brow, shifts her weight into me and kisses me, "You're goddamned right, I'm right," she says afterwards.

So there's one thing off the list of impossible things for Dexter to do. Cross off telling Debra the truth; now comes finding both the Tamiami Slasher and Heisenberg before the Feds do. But the question is, how? How do I find the Slasher when he's in the wind? How do I stop Heisenberg from downing more cops, any of whom from patrol to the commissioner could be killed; Heisenberg proved himself quite capable of infiltrating practically any outfit, even managing to capture and kill the Mayor, who was the most protected man in Miami. I seriously fear for any schlub of a beat cop (maybe even Detectives, soon) that will have the misfortune of being on duty in… about 68 hours, now.

Speaking of Russia, I could really use a getaway right about now. Just leave everything behind and drop off the map for a couple more years.

But that's just wishful thinking, now, isn't it? Dexter has the weight of the world on his shoulders and he dare not shirk off his duties lest the world falls. Likely right on top of him, too.

And now that I'm thinking about running away, Debra's little innocent kisses from before are starting to turn quite physical as she scrabbles at my shirt and the button of my pants.

Well, I'll take solace in the fact that this is the one thing I _don't_ want to run from right about now.

* * *

><p>I wake up later that night in the nude, pressed together against a lightly snoring and equally nude Debra. Well, that was interesting way to spend two hours. Debs, still asleep, turns over, and in an overly-feminine manner for someone who is usually so 'no bullshit', she snuggles into the crook of my neck and makes a soft mewling noise that sounds eerily reminiscent to a cat's purr.<p>

The night wears on like this, and I can't say I do not like it, there's a great deal of comfort even someone like me can take from human companionship like this.

And in the morning, I find that human companionship paid off, and telling Debra the truth about my past (even if it is nowhere near the _whole_ truth) must have raised my karma points with some deity out there who just happened to let things align that we might get a call from dispatch, telling Debs and I to get to a rather random-looking address in The Grove.

Debra is up like a lightning bolt, considering that she is no longer on the Heisenberg Case due to her lack of experience. Only LaGuerta, Batista, and Doakes were allowed to stay on and the Feds took Coulter off our hands as well.

Due to time constraints, Debs jumps in whilst I'm taking a shower, which makes for a slightly awkward ten minutes of switching spots round each other to get the soap and water from the showerhead. But, soon, that is done and we head to the crime scene wear Masuka and Deke await us.

I knew that the multiple dead cops from the past few days would put the department in a right foul mood, but I hadn't quite expected this bad. Masuka looks white as a sheet, which is actually rather interesting, considering how tan the man is. We stand in a random warehouse, one that I don't particularly recognize and it feels as though the air were sucked out the room. Cops just amble along, not really watching where they're going, and the Forensics crew barely keeps a wary on preserving the crime scene.

I have never felt as though I could literally feel the mood of a crime scene, but I can feel deep, deep despair emanating from it all. Debs jaw sets into a low frown, Masuka grits his teeth, Coulter stands in a corner and just looks pale.

We have been utterly defeated by yesterday's events.

Homicide is a joke, the Police aren't even safe from killers, and to top it off, we've got a new and even bloodier crime scene to dissect. And while the PD has technically caught the Tamiami Slasher, we know it's simply _not_ _enough_.

"So, what do you think it is?" Debs questions Vince in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, as if she's paying her own respects to the dead.

"Dunno," the Forensic Investigator responds quickly, "Could be any fucking gang; Santeria, all the Voodoo priests do this shit as well, but I can't for the life of me decide. You'll probably have to consult the internet."

"Oh, fuck," The brunette sighs, glancing sideways at me.

I rub my eyes; this is just what I need, a gang murder on top of everything else! "Alright," I reply, defeated, "Let's take a look."

Masuka leads us past a circle of rather sullen-looking cops who barely glance up to give us a greeting, likely too depressed with the state of affairs at Miami Metro these days. Strangely enough, we pass through the doors of the warehouse and find ourselves under a bridge where no one ever seems to come. Good place for privacy, even better place to dump bodies.

And then, we are in front of _it_.

There is a sort of altar in front of us, fashioned out of wood and it rests against one of the pillars of the underpass. And atop it, are two heads. The heads are impossible to discern, as it appears they were relieved of their faces. But from the bodies: one male and one female.

Side note: What's up with Miami killers and their obsession with heads?

Rather inane questions aside, both of them did appear to be in a great deal of pain when they died, because it wasn't any sort of quick execution; the way their heads were cleaved off was to maximize pain.

"Think it's Santeria?" Deb asks, covering her nose from the smell of it.

"Maybe," I reply. But, for some reason, I know it's not a gang murder just from looking at it.

This is completely, totally, and obviously the Slasher. I can just tell it is. Call it a hunch.

Suddenly an acrid tang wafts to my nose and I nearly recoil at the scent: the smell of unfiltered cigarettes. I turn around and survey the other Homicide as well as Uniformed Officers. Frankly, no one seems to be smoking anything at all. But yet that smoke rolls on; nobody else seems to notice it, but that smell sets of alarms in my head.

"Smell that?" I ask Debra, who returns a questioning look as she glides my way:

"Smell what?" The brunette asks.

I look around, trying to capture a trace of that scent, hanging in the ether, and locate it. I certainly can't bottle and present it to my best friend, so I just stick to sniffing it out like a dog. Underneath an overpass in Liberty City, what sort of malevolent magicks is my friend up to?

Cops, still skittish about Heisenberg's willingness to drop them, skirt about the street. They look over their shoulders fearfully, as if the shotgun-toting terrorist is hot on their heels already, snapping his jowls at them like hounds leading the sinful into the jaws of hell. Masuka, still pale as a sheet snaps photos of the bodies.

A Uni rushes up to us with the hurry only a man who fears for his life can have: "Here," he practically throws two wallets at me, as if they're cursed, "Found the clothes in a dumpster nearby; we found two wallets in them. Could be our vics, you know?"

I know. But that is a problem. The Slasher is not known to be simple-minded and prone to error. He just isn't. So why would he make such a rookie mistake?

The still night is pierced by multiple loud cracks, too measured to be firecrackers or the backfiring of a car. Debs looks up:

"What the fuck was that?"

Batista snorts: "Easy, girl," he says placatingly, "we're two blocks from the projects. It's probably something with drugs; let the Narcos handle it."

I toss the more feminine-looking of the wallets to Debs to open whilst I take a look at the one I presume to be the man's. Gilbert Smith. Gilbert.

I think I recognize that name. At the hospital. Jackson Memorial? I race through the many pockets of the wallet and eventually find a small I.D. from Jackson Memorial with his name on it. Division of Diagnostics, apparently.

"Valerie Barbosa," Debs says quietly, jolting my brain out of inaction, "Does that name seem familiar?"

Yes, Debra. Yes it does.

"Let me see that," I say, relieving Debs of the wallet, eyes settling on the picture of her face. "This…" I start, "Do you know the Art Gallery Dee owns?"

Debra nods, "Yeah."

"This is her partner," Debra's eyebrows nearly shoot into her hair as the unseasonable drizzle we've been experiencing over the last few weeks picks up again. "Val. The one who bought the gallery with her. The other artist."

We all stare at each other.

"Oh," is all Batista can say.

Oh is right.

* * *

><p>Masuka exits the designated area for the county coroner and shakes his head in an apologetic manner. What we had feared when we caught the two bodies four hours ago and brought the bodies back to the Morgue has come true: Deidre Moser's best friend and Art-partner is now dead, without a head and definitely missing a face. Another victim of the Tamiami Slasher.<p>

Another victim of the game the three of us; Heisenberg, the Slasher, and I

"Fuck," Debra says. Harry, who has been waiting with us, doesn't even admonish his daughter's language and just grunts. The charge of the light brigade's failed, the Slasher's closer than ever, and Heisenberg… well, he's in the wind and will come out once every three days until I dispose of the Slasher.

Safe to say, this is _not_ my week.

I stand the moment Masuka shakes his head and head towards the door.

"Dex," Debs calls softly, "Where are you going?"

I pause for just a moment. "Well, someone has to tell my sister," I reply, before moving on, upwards and higher, taking the stairs and hopefully straight to Valhalla, but I know that's impossible, and instead, I find myself on the rooftop of the HQ, looking out over a brilliant dawn despite the persistent storm that soaks my jacket and seeps into my shirt and skin.

I walk to the ledge and look down at the early morning joggers and the partiers who overstayed the night's welcome just a tad too long. Seagulls over the Biscayne Bay caw and swoop and loop in the skies, crying their songs to the heavens. Dogs scurry below on the slick, tar-paved roads, seeking shade from the sun and the rain in the comforting shadows of low palm trees. Blissfully unaware boatmen glide to their ships, cleaning, unaware their mighty arks are to bear against the current, thrown back over and over again; they move backwards, sidewards, forwards, in all directions and none. Good audience. And the thought strikes me like that. If I jumped right now, would it make a difference? Both the Tamiami Slasher and Heisenberg are interested in me, and apparently me only. So that begs to ask: if I killed myself right now; if I pulled out my sidearm and blew a hole in my head the size of a baseball or face-planted into the ground twelve stories below, would I be able to end it? Stop the killing before one of the two takes out someone truly important? A good audience indeed. To see the end of an era. The end of Dexter. To see Dexter re-chain the earth to the sun; it's a terrible day for the blind-eyed boatmen. But better this way than the other. Moving backwards, sidewards, forwards; no one wants to go nowhere. Maybe with this one act, the murders stop; without the _raison d'etre_, there is no reason for action. And the logic seems so fluid, so beautiful, so _right_ that I feel myself starting to tip over.

But, then, a little voice (no doubt the instinct of self-preservation) whispers softly in my mind's ear: Haven't you given enough?

And I straighten myself on the ledge. But the stakes are getting higher. Mayors, cops, now Dee's best friend… who knows what 's coming next?

Haven't I given enough?

And then a very noble part of me sounds its reply: Not enough, not yet, not everything I have.

And I put one foot over the ledge. Still, no one looks up. Sure, they'd be depressed; Dee loses her best friend and her brother (whether or not she's exactly talking to him), but nobody else dies. No more disorder. Where there is no life, there is only order. Truth be told, this would even be better for me. I don't believe in heaven or hell, so I don't fear what comes next.

I have made peace with my gods.

And I start to let gravity take over when suddenly, a gripping fear overtakes me, a fear of what comes next. A fear of the darkness. I tremble with the wind, feeling reed-thin, swaying sick on that ledge. Perhaps I haven't made peace with anything. And that's likely what my two friends expect of me. So Dexter, thin as a stick, frightened as a child, backs off the ledge, turns to face the door leading back in the building, and sits on the stoop that leads nowhere. No. But it must be done. It has to be done, doesn't it? No one is safe until I find the Slasher, and even then, I can make no guarantees. But this is one guarantee. Here there are no human devices or constructs or attack plans that can satisfy the wiles of a more primordial nature. Here, death alone is physician.

And Dexter has been sick a long time.

The logic of it all is astounding, but I must ask myself: Why? Why do I care so much, why am I so fazed? Is this all Dexter is capable of? Willing to go to any length to win? Willing to chuck himself off a building, shoot himself, just to beat a terrorist and a killer?

But it makes _so _much _sense_. Kill me? I can see why both the Slasher and Heisenberg would recoil at the thought. They would have nothing _without me_! So _kill me_. _Kill me_?

And so they scoff.

But I do not. And if I were to blast my brains right now, the game ends. No more fun for Heisenberg; no one is left for the Slasher to leave clues. They would do as all good killers without a purpose do: fade into the dark and die alone in whatever dark, dank hovel they hail from.

And I am nothing if not a logical person. Cold, hard facts are what I live by. I care for no pretenses, only what works. And this reeks of nothing but logic. Goodbye, cruel world, and people stop dying. The last victim; the smartest of them all. Willing to go to _any_ lengths. And so, I un-holster my sidearm, the trusty 92FS that has served me quite well over the past few years. Who'd have ever thought that the only one it was meant to kill was its owner. I check the magazine, finding it full. No matter. One is all I'll need.

Willing to go to any lengths.

I put the barrel against my temple. This is not me hating life, or even wanting to kill myself. This is knowing, with absolute certainty, that this is the only justice there is in the world. Life is at its best a sickness, and this is the cure. The cure for the pain of all those who died, for their families and friends, and the cure for Police Department, how far it's lagged behind. This is the cure for everything.

Death: The lone physician!

And so comes the closing of the eyes; the click of the hammer; the steeling of the nerves; the sound of footsteps… wait. Footsteps? My eyes open to see Harry looming over me with a very disappointed look on his face:

"Well. Are you going to shoot?" He asks simply.

I grunt in response, lowering the gun. "Probably not anymore."

"Why?" The question is phrased as a demand.

"Because it brings an end to it all," I reply, "and I'm willing to do anything to bring _it_ to an end."

Harry snorts. "And killing yourself is the answer?"

"Do what no one else can," I shrug.

"Why?" Comes the question again.

I take my time to answer. "Everything feels… so _suffocating_. So backwards from what it was. I'm used to being in this position, but not in America. Everything is really... just fucked up."

"I think you've got that wrong," Harry growls, rain dripping from the jacket (incidentally, the same kind of putrid high-visibility coat Debs has been wearing up until recently) he wears, which accentuates his scowling features.

"I don't know," I don't know? What I don't know is why I'm defending myself when I should just blow my brains out right now, "it's… it's just backwards. And I know nothing, except this. And this is the one way to ensure…"

"Ensure what?"

"That Deb, or you, or anyone dies!" I find myself screaming. And I recoil backwards. Both Harry and I stare at each other in complete silence; apparently it's just as a much a revelation to him as it is to me. We both take time to compose our thoughts before Harry steps to the ledge and looks down at the boatmen, who are being rained upon now, despite the sun being out. I turn to look as well: the boatmen move along as if nothing has happened. Nothing has changed for them. And nothing ever will. But something has changed for me. This is not to stop the disorder. I did not lie to Harry. This is to protect them.

Harry, Dee, Brian, Ben, Mom… Debra. Everyone.

It's Harry that breaks the silence first. "Do you remember when you were a junior in high school?" He asks.

I nod, remembering exactly what instance my surrogate father is referencing: "How could I forget?"

"You didn't jump then, why jump now?"

Why jump now, indeed?

"There's no reason to," I reply. And just like that, the cold, icy logic that had filled me moments ago seems utterly ridiculous now. I step off the ledge and make my way back to Harry, who claps my back. He'll ask me soon enough why I was up here, what I thought could be accomplished by chucking myself off the roof.

And I'll answer him. Maybe with the truth, maybe with a lie, but there will be an answer for him. For everyone. For everything I've done.

"Come on, Dex," Harry smiles, "We'll go break the news to Deidre together."

I smile, grateful for Harry's calming presence. "Thank you."

We walk, together, towards the roof exit.

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><p><strong>AN: **I know, this chapter was pitifully short, but I've made you wait far too long! No, Dexter isn't suicidal, that's just the logical part of his brain, and the selfless part as well, overriding his need for survival in efforts to 'win' against Heisenberg and protect his family.

Thanks for reading, and drop me a line or two for reviews!  
>Geist.<p> 


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